












(, I 'i -i 


1 


\ 


:i 1*', 


.i 



v 

i-' 
i ■: 






A GALLOWAY HERD. 





% 



• 0 ‘ * 

S, R. CROCKETT. 


f 



•kfi 







(^ALLOWAY 

^ Herd 


BY ' 

S. R. CROCKETT 

V( 

AUTHOR OF 

•*Th« Lilac Sunbonkbt,” “The Raiders,” “The Stickit Minister,” 
“ Bog, Myrtle and Peat,” etc., etc. 



M OVifl/ 


NEW YORK 

R. F. FENNO AND COMPANY 

iia Fifth Avenu* 








I O S 7 2. C^ f 

z 

'■ c- 


COPYRIGHT, 1896, 

BY 

B. F. FEXNO «fe COMPANY 


A Gallowaf Htrd, 


CONTENTS. 


Chapter Page 

I. The Minister’s Funeral ... 7 

II. What Saunders M’Quhirr saw in 

London lo 

III. The Unknown Mourner . . .15 

IV. The Tragedy in By water Court . 19 

V. The Flight by Night . . . *25 

VI. A Peaceful Summer’s Day at Drum- 

quhat 30 

VII. Wee Wattie An’erson . . *33 

VIII. An Evening Meeting on the Moor . 41 

IX. A Night on the Moors . . .48 

X. The Babes in the Wood . . *53 

XL The House of Deeside . . .62 

XII. The Herd’s New Friend . . .64 

XIII. The Tug of War . . . .72 

XIV. A Stranger Comes to Drumquhat . 78 

XV. Another Visitor 82 

XVI. Archie Grierson’s Second Ride . 85 

XVII. A Sabbath Day at Drumquhat . 89 

XVIII. A Cameronian Diet of Worship . loi 

XIX. The Return from Church . . 104 

XX. The Serpent in Paradise . . .108 

XXL The Coming of the Snow . . .111 

XXII. Earning a Sixpence . . . .116 

XXIII. What Rab Found in the Barn . .126 

XXIV. The Morning After . . . .135 

XXV. The Chrysties of Nether Neuk . 144 

XXVI. “ Sawny ” Bean . . . .152 

M 


VI 


CONTENTS. 


Chapter 

XXVII. 

XXVIII. 

XXIX. 

XXX. 

XXXI. 
XXXII. 

XXXIII. 

XXXIV. 

XXXV. 

XXXVI. 

XXXVII. 

XXXVIII. 

XXXIX. 

XL. 

XLI. 

XLII. 

XLIII. 

XLIV. 

XLV. 

XLVI. 


XLVII. 

XLVIII. 

XLIX. 


Page 

The Double Traitor . . . .158 

A Mission to the Crows . . .160 

Captured 166 

The Sand Cavern . . . .170 

Walter Preaching to the Heathen . 174 
A Midsummer Night . . . 180 

Archie Grierson’s Third Service . 187 

How Wattie Escaped . . .193 

A New Prisoner in the Barrel . 197 

The Robbery of her Majesty’s 

Mails 

Sawny Bean Settles his Account . 

The Galloway Herd “ Looks his 

Sheep.” 

The Minister’s Visitation 
Lover’s Tryst .... * 

The Meeting 

A Night with Sawny Bean, Poacher 246 
Sawny Bean Makes a New Start in 

Life 

Good-Bye to Deeside 
The Fall of Peter Chrystie 
The Experiences of Jacob Bergman, 
Now Head Waiter in Heidelberg, 
Once a Spy in Paris . . . 272 

In the Hands of the Enemy . . 279 

The Prison of Mazas . . . 286 

All Things New .... 292 


199 

205 


219 

237 

240 


253 

260 

266 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


CHAPTER I. 

THE minister’s FUNERAL. 

“ Weel, he’s won awa' !” 

“ Ay, ay, he is that !” 

The minister’s funeral was winding slowly out of 
the little manse loaning. The window-blinds were 
all down, and their bald whiteness, like sightless 
eyes looking out of the white-washed walls and the 
trampled snow, made the Free Church Manse of 
Deeside no cheerful picture that wild New Year’s 
day. The green gate that had hung on one hinge, 
periodically mended ever since the minister’s son 
broke the other swinging on it the summer of the 
dry year before he went to college, had swayed for- 
ward with a miserably forlorn lurch, as though it 
too had tried to follow the funeral procession of the 
man who had shut it carefully every night for forty 
years. 

Andrew Malcolm, the Glencairn joiner, who was 
gojiducting the funeral — if, indeed, Scotch funerals 

[7] 


8 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


can ever be said to be conducted — had given it a 
push to let the rickety hearse have plenty of sea 
room between the granite pillars. It was a long and 
straggling funeral, silent save for the words that 
stand at the opening of this chapter, which ran up 
and down the long black files like the irregular fire 
of skirmishers. 

“ Ay, mon, he’s won awa’ !” 

“ Ay, ay, he is that !” 

This is the Scottish Lowland coronach,” charac- 
teristic and expressive as the wailing of the pipes 
to the Gael or the keening of women among the 
wild Eirionach. 

“ We are layin’ the last o’ the auld An’ersons o’ 
Deeside amang the mools (earth) the day,” said 
Saunders M’Quhirr, the farmer of Drumquhat, to his 
friend, Rob Adair, of the Mains of Deeside, as they 
walked sedately together, neither swinging his arms 
as he would have done on an ordinary day. Saun- 
ders had come over Dee Water to follow the far- 
noted man of God to his rest. 

“ There’s nae siccan men nooadays as the An’ersons 
o’ Deeside,” said Rob Adair, with a kind of pride 
and pleasure in his voice. “ I’m a dale aulder than 
you, Saunders, an’ I mind weel o’ the faithero’ him 
that’s gane.” Rob had the curious South country 
disinclination to speak directly of the dead, perhaps 
the same feeling of which Mr. Louis Stevenson has 
such strange stories to tell in his Pacific voyages. 

“ Ay, an angry man he was that day in the ’43 
when him that’s a corp the day left the kirk an’ 
manse that his faither had pitten him intil only the 
year afore. For, of coorse, the Lairds o’ Deeside 


THE minister’s FUNERAL. 


9 


war the pawtrons o’ the pairish, an’ when the auld 
laird’s yae son took into his heid to be a minister, 
it was in the natur’ o’ things that he should get the 
pairish. 

“ Weel, the laird didna speak to his son for the 
better part o’ twa year, though mony a time he 
drave by to the Pairish Kirk when his son was 
haudin’ an ootdoor service at the Auld Wa’s whaur 
the three roads meet, for nae sicht could they get on 
a’ Deeside for kirk or manse, for frae the Dullarg 
to Craig Ronald a’ belanged to the laird. The 
minister sent the wife an’ bairns to a sma’ hoose in 
Cairn Edward, an’ lodged himsel’ amang sic o’ the 
fermers as werena feared for his faither’s factor. 
Na, an’ speak the auld man wadna, for the very 
doumess o’ him, even though the minister wad say 
to his faither, ‘ Faither, wull ye no’ speak to yer ain 
son ?’ no’ yae word wad he answer, but pass him as 
though he hadna seen him, as muckle as to say, 
‘ Nae son o’ mine !’ 

“ But a week or twa efter the minister had lost 
twa nice bairns wi’ the scarlet fivvur, his faither an’ 
him forgethered at the fishin’ whaur he had gane, 
thinkin’ to jook the sair thocts that he carried aboot 
wi’ him, puir man. They were baith keen fishers 
an’ graun’ at it. The minister was for liftin’ his 
hat to his faither an’ gaun by, but the auld man 
stood still in the middle o’ the fit-pad wi’ a gye 
queer look in his face. 

‘ Wattie,’ he said, an’ for yae blink the minister 
thoct that his faither was gaun to greet, a thing that 
he had never seen him do in all his life, but he 
dinna greet. ‘ Wattie,’ says he, ‘ hae ye a huik ?’ 


lO 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


Ay, Saunders, that was a’ he said, an’ the min- 
ister juist gied him the huik an’ the twa o’ them 
never said Disruption mair as lang as they leeved. 

‘Ye had better see the factor aboot pittin’ up a 
meetin’ hoose and a decent dwallin’, gin ye hae left 
Kirk an’ Manse !’ 

“ That was a’ that the auld laird ever said.” 


CHAPTER II. 

WHAT SAUNDERS m’qUHIRR SAW IN LONDON. 

“ Ay, he’s been a sair tried man in his time, your 
minister, but he’s a’ by wi’t the day,” continued 
Saunders M’Quhirr, as they trudged behind the 
hearse. 

” Did I ever tell you, Rob, aboot seein’ young 
Walter — his boy that gaed wrang, ye ken — when I 
was up i’ Lunnon the year afore last. Na ; ’deed I 
telled naebody bena’ the mistress. It was nae guid 
story to tell on Deeside ! 

” I was up, as ye ken, at Barnet Fair wi’ some 
wunter beas’, sae I bade a day or twa in Lunnon, 
doin’ what sma’ business I had, an’ seein’ the sichts 
as weel, for its no’ ilka day that a Deeside body 
fin’s themsel’s i’ Lunnon. 

“Yae nicht W-*a should come in but a Cairn 
Edward callan’ that ser’d his time in the Gazette 
office. He had spoken to me at the show, pleased 
to see a Gallawa’ face, nae doot ; and he telled me 


WHAT SAUNDERS m’qUHIRR SAW IN LONDON. 1 1 

he was mairriet an’ workin’ on the Times. An» 
amang ither things back an’ forrit he telled me 
that the minister o’ Deeside’s son was here. ‘ But,’ 
says he, ‘ I’m feared that he’s cornin’ to nae guid.’ 
I kenned that the laddie hadna been hame to his 
faither an’ his mither for a maitter o’ maybe ten 
year, so I thocht that I wad like to see the lad for 
his faither’s sake. So in a day or twa I got his ad- 
dress frae the reporter lad, an’ fand him efter a lang 
seek doon in a gye queer place no’ far frae where 
Tammas Carlyle leeves near the water side. I 
thocht that there was nae ill bits i’ Lunnon but in 
the East End ; but I learned different. 

“ I gaed up the stair o’ a wee brick hoose nearly 
tummlin’ doon wi’ its ain wecht — a perfect rickle o* 
brick — an* chappit. A lass opened the door efter a 
wee, no’ that ill-lookin’, but toosy aboot the held 
an’ unco shilpit (pale) aboot the face. 

‘ What do you want ?’ says she, verra sherp an’ 
clippit in her mainner o’ speech. 

‘ Does Walter An’erson o’ Deeside bide here ?’ 
I askit, gye an’ plain, as ye ken a body has to speak 
to they Englishers that barely can understan’ their 
ain language. 

“ ‘ What may you want with him ?’ says she. 

* I come frae Deeside,’ says I — no’ that I meaned 
to lichtly my ain pairish, but I thocht that the lassie 
micht no’ be acquaint wi’ the name o’ Whunny- 
liggate. * I come frae Deeside, an’ I ken Walter 
An’erson’s faither.’ 

That’s no recommend,’ says she. 

“ ‘ The mair’s the peety,’ says I, ‘ for he’s a daicent 
man.’ 


12 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


“ So she took ben xny name that I had nae cause 
to be ashamed o’, an’ syne she brocht word that I 
was to step in. So ben I gaed, an’ it wasna a far 
step, eyther, for it was juist yae bit garret room ; 
an’ there on a bed in the corner was the minister’s 
laddie, lookin’ nae aulder than when he used to 
swing on the yett an’ chase the hens. At the verra 
first glint I gat o’ him I saw that Daith had come to 
him and come to bide. His countenance was barely 
o’ this earth — sair disjaskit an’ no’ manlike ava’ — 
mair like a lassie far gane in a decline ; but raised- 
like too, an’ wi’ a kind o’ defiance in it, as if he war 
darin’ the Almichty to His face. 

“ Man, Rob, I houp I may never see the like 
again.” 

“Ay, man, Saunders, ay, ay,” said Rob Adair, 
who being a more demonstrative man than his 
friend, had been groping in the tail of his “ blacks ” 
for the handkerchief that was in his hat, then for- 
getting what he was searching for in the interest of 
the story, he walked for a considerable distance 
with his hand deep in the pocket of his tail coat. 

The farmer of Drumquhat proceeded on his even 
way. 

“ The lassie that I took to be his wife (but I asked 
no quastions) was awfu’ different ben the room wi’ 
him, frae what she was wi’ me at the door — fleechin’ 
like wi’ him to tak’ a sup o’ soup, an’ when I gaed 
forrit to speak to him on the puir bit bed, she cam' 
by me an’ the water was happin’ off her cheeks like 
hail in a simmer thunner shoo’er.” 

“Puir bit lassockie,” said Rob Adair, who had 
three daughters of his own at home, making another 


WHAT SAUNDERS m’qUHIRR SAW IN LONDON. 1 3 

absent-minded and unsuccessful search for his 
handkerchief. “ There’s a smurr o’ rain beginnin’ 
to fa’, I think,” he said, apologetically. 

“ * An’ you’re Sandy MacWhurr frae Drumquhat,’ 
says the puir lad on the bed. ‘Are your sugar 
plums as guid as ever ?’ ” 

“ What a quastion, Saunders,” said Rob. 

“ ’Deed ye may say it. Weel, frae that he gaed 
on talkin’ aboot hoo Fred Robinson and him stole 
the hale o’ the Drumquhat plooms yae back-end, an’ 
hoo they gat as far as the horse waterin’-place wi’ 
them when the dowgs got efter them. He thriepit 
that it was me that set them on, but I never did 
that, though I didna conter him. They made for 
the seven-fit march dyke, but hadna time to mak* 
ower it, sae had to sit on the tap o’ a thorn bush in 
the meadow on their hunkers, wi’ the dowgs fair 
loupin’ an’ howlin’ to get baud o’ them, till I came 
doon mysel’ an’ garred them turn every pooch oot- 
side in. He minded, too, that I was for hingin’ 
them baith up by the heels till what they had etten 
followed what had been in their pooches. A’ this 
he said juist as he did whan he wad hae corned ower 
to hae a bar wi’ the lassies in the forenichts efter he 
cam’ hame frae the college the first year ; but 
lauchin’ a’ the time in a wey I didna like, it wasna 
natural — something hard an’ frae the teeth oot, as 
yin micht say, maist peetifu’ in a callant like him, 
wi’ the deid lichts shinin’ in the blue een o’ him.” 

“ D’ye no’ mind, Saunders, o’ him cornin’ hame 
frae the college wi’ a hantel o’ medals an’ prizes ?” 
said Rob Adair, breaking in as if he felt that he 
must contribute his share to the memories which 


14 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


shortened if they did not lighten their road. “ His 
faither was rael prood o’ him, though it wasna his 
way to say muckle ; but his mither could talk aboot 
naething else, an’ carriet the medals aboot wi’ her 
a’ ower the pairish in her wee black recktical bas- 
ket. Pegs, a gipsy wife, gat a saxpence juist for 
speerin’ for a sicht o’ them.” 

“ Weel,” continued Saunders, imperturbably con- 
tinuing the thread of his narrative, I let the lad 
rin on i’ this wey for a while, an’ then says I: 

“ ‘ Walter, ye dinna ask efter yer faither ?’ 

“ ‘ No, I don’t,’ says he, verra short. ‘ Nell, gie 
me the draught.’ 

” So wi’ that the lassie gied her een a bit quick 
dab, an’ cam’ forrit, an’ pitten’ her ^irm ablow his 
heid she gied him a drink. Whatever it was, it 
quaitened him, an* he lay back tired like. 

“ ‘ Weel,’ said I, after a wee, ‘ Walter, gin ye’ll no’ 
Speer for yer faither, maybe ye’ll speer for yer ain 
mither ?’ 

“ Walter An’erson turned his heid to the wa’. 

‘ Oh, my mither ! my ain mither !’ he said.” 
***** 

“ I saw young Walter juist yince mair in life. I 
gaed to see him the neest mornin’ when the end was 
verra near. He was catchin’ an’ twitchin’ at the 
coverlet, liftin’ up his hand an’ lookin’ at it as 
though it was somebody else’s. It was a black 
Lunnon fog outside, an’ even in the garret it took 
him in his throat, till he couldna get breath. 

He motioned for me to get doon beside him. 
There was nae chair, so I e’en gat doon on my 


THE UNKNOWN MOURNER. 


15 


knees. The lass stood white and quaite at the far 
side o’ the bed. He turned his een on me, blue an’ 
bonnie as a bairn’s, but wi’ a licht in them that 
telled he had eaten o’ the tree o’ knowledge. 

** ‘ Oh, Sandy,’ he whispered, ‘ what a mess I've 
made o’t, haven’t I ? You’ll see my mither when 
ye gang back to Deeside. Tell her it’s no’ been so 
bad as it has whiles lookit. Tell her I’ve a’ loved 
her, even at the warst — an’, an’, my faither, too !’ 
he said, with a kind o’ sab. 

“ ‘ Walter,’ says I, ‘ I’ll pit up a prayer, as I’m on 
my knees onywey.’ 

“ I’m no’ giftit like some ; but, Robert, I prayed 
for that laddie gaun afore his Maker as I never 
prayed afore or since ; an* I feenished verra short 
juist as ordinar’, an* forgie us a* oor sins ^ for Jesus 
Christ's sake. Amen* 

** ‘ Amen* said Walter An’erson. 


CHAPTER HI. 

THE UNKNOWN MOURNER. 

“That nichtas the clock was chappin’ twal’ the 
lassie came to my door (an’ the landlady wasna that 
weel pleased at bein’ wakkined, eyther), an’ she 
askit me to come an’ see Walter, for there was nae- 
body else that kenned him in his guid days. So I 
took my stave an’ my plaid an’ gaed my ways wi’ 
her intil the nicht— a’ lichtit up wi’ lang dooble rows 


i6 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


o’ gas lamps, an’ awa’ doon by the water side whaur 
the water sweels black anaith the brigs. Man, a big 
lichtit toun at nicht’s far mair lanesome than the 
Diillarg muir when it’s dark as pit-mirk. When 
we got to the piiir bit hoosie we fand that the doctor 
was there afore us — I had gotten him to Walter the 
nicht afore — but the lassie was nae suner within the 
door than she gied an unco-like cry, an’ flang her- 
sel’ distrackit on the bed. An’ there I saw” at ween 
her white airms and her tangled yellow hair, the 
face o’ Walter An’erson, the son o’ the manse o’ 
Deeside, lyin’ on the pillow wi’ the chin tied up in a 
napkin ! 

“Never a sermon like that, Robert Adair!” said 
Saunders M’Quhirr, solemnly. 

They were now turning off the wind-swept muir- 
road into the sheltered little avenue which led up to 
the kirk above the white and ice-bound Dee Water. 
The aged gravedigger, bent nearly double, met them 
where the roads parted. A little farther up the 
newly elected minister of the parish kirk stood at the 
manse door in which Walter Anderson had turned 
the key forty years ago for conscience sake. 

Very black and sombre looked the great, silent 
company of mourners that now drew together about 
the open grave — a fearsome gash on the white 
spread of the new”-fallen snow. There was no relig- 
ious service at the minister’s grave save that of the 
deepest silence. Ranked round the coffin which lay 
on black bars over the grave mouth stood the elders, 
but no one of them ventured to take the positions 
of honor at the head and the foot. The minister 


THE UNKNOWN MOURNER. 1/ 

had left not one of his blood with a right to these 
positions. He was the last Anderson of Deeside. 

“ Preserve us ! wha’s yon they’re pittin’ at the fit 
o’ the grave ? Wha can it be ava ?” was whispered 
here and there back in the crowd. “It’s Jean 
Grierson’s boy, I declare, him that the minister took 
oot o’ the puirhoose, and schuled and colleged baith. 
Weel, that cows a’ ! Saw ye ever the like o’ that ?” 

It was to Rob Adair that this good and worthy 
thought had come. In him more than in any of his 
fellow-elders the dead man’s spirit lived. He had 
sat under him all his life, and was sappy with his 
teaching. Some would have murmured had they 
had time to complain, but no one dare say nay to 
Rob Adair as he pushed the modest, clear-faced 
youth into the vacant place. He was not so unlike 
the other Walter Anderson about whose end Rob 
had just been hearing. 

Still the space at the head of the grave was vacant, 
and for a long moment the ceremony halted as if 
waiting for a manifestation not of this world. With 
a swift, sudden startle the coil of black cord reserved 
for the chief mourner slipped off the coffin lid and 
fell heavily into the grave. 

“ He’s there afore his faither,” said Saunders 
M’Quhirr. 

So sudden and unexpected was the movement, 
that, though the simplest thing in the world, a visi- 
ble quiver passed through the bowed ranks of the 
bearers. “ It’s his ain boy Wattie come to lay his 
faither’s heid i’ the grave !” cried Daft Jess, the 
parish “ natural,” in a loud, sudden voice from the 


1 8 A GALLOWAY HERD. 

“ thruch ” stone near the kirkyard wall where she 
stood at gaze. 

And there were many there who did not think it 
impossible. 

As the mourners scaled " away from the kirk- 
yaird in twos and threes there was wonderment as 
to whom the property, for which the great laird and 
minister had cared so little, would go. There were 
very various opinions, but one thing was quite 
universally admitted, that there would be no such 
easy terms in the matter of rent and arrears as 
there had been in the time of “ him that’s awa’.” 
So the snow swept down with a biting swirl as the 
groups scattered and vanished from each other’s 
sight, diving into the eddying drifts as into a great 
tent of many flapping folds. Grave and quiet is the 
Scottish funeral, yet with a kind of simple manful- 
ness as of men in the presence of the King of Ter- 
rors, yet possessing that within them which enabled 
every man of them to abide without unworthy fear 
the messenger who comes but once to all. On the 
whole, not so sad as many things that are called 
merry. 

So the last Anderson of Deeside, and the best of 
all their ancient line, was gathered to his fathers in 
an equal sleep that snowy January morning. There 
were two inches of snow in the grave when they 
laid the coffin in. As Saunders said : Afore auld 
Elec could get him happit, his Maister had hidden 
him like Moses in a windin’-sheet o’ His ain.” In 
the morning when Elec went hirpling into the kirk- 
yaird he found at the gravehead a bare place that 
the snow had not covered. Then some remembered 


19 


THE TR^EDT IN BYWATER COURT. 

that, hurrying by in the rapidly darkening gloaming 
of the night of the funeral, they had seen some one 
standing immovable by the minister’s grave in the 
thickly drifting snow. They had wondered why he 
should stand there on such a bitter night. 

There were those who said that it was just the 
lad Archibald Grierson gone to stand a while by his 
benefactor’s grave, but Daft Jess was of another 
opinion, 

■ 5 ^^ — 

CHAPTER IV. « • ‘ 

THE TRAGEDY IN BYWATER COURT. 

Bywater Court lies down Chelsea way. Not 
being in the East End, it is not bewritten, be- 
slummed, district visited ; also few murders of any 
note have been professionally carried through there. 
It is only a pure wedge of heathenism, driven into a 
district which is now regaining some of its old sub- 
urbaij tone, and priding itself upon the fact. Its 
ideal Palace of Delights is not such as Mr. Besant 
would approve. Many of the houses are undescribed 
in the directory, unvisited and largely unvisitable 
by the city missionary, alien from the latest plan of 
salvation by Social Science. The Charity Organiza- 
tion passes it by ; there are supposed to be no de- 
serving poor in By water Court. Mysterious shop- 
fronts with nothing marketable in the windows 
scowl blotchily at the passer by ; dried herbs swing 
uninvitingly, speckled with fly-blow and bleached 


20 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


with sun and dust. Frowsy women, mostly young, 
slink into the doors, or peer out of dark interiors 
through the space from which a single shutter has 
been removed, like the gap left by a missing tooth, 
sinister and prominent. 

Only two visitors erect in self-respect the district 
knows, the slim curate, with his soft hat turned up 
aft and fore, and the policeman who shoulders his 
way in at these half-open doors without ceremony 
or “ By your leave.” All other frequenters of By- 
water Court, dwellers or visitors, seem to glide, 
slither, or slouch sideways, stooping forward, in all 
sorts of slinking attitudes — shoulders drawn up, so 
that the head seems to be driven into the body as 
the cork of a bottle is driven by the too vigorous 
mallet, or else sloping away from the neck in a 
rounded curve like the contour of a gingerbeer 
bottle. 

A row is of so common occurrence in Bywater 
Court that hardly a head is turned at the shrill 
intrusion of women’s shrieks or the dull sound of 
blows. At such times some kind-hearted person 
usually stands at the mouth of the court to give the 
modulated whistle which warns of the coming of 
the “ cops,” for Bywater Court loves to conduct its 
own business, without interference from Her 
Majesty’s officers. There is one door between 
the fried-fish shop of Judah Krause and the shady 
window with the gap-toothed shutter, in the door- 
way of which swung the dusty wisps of hay, a door 
which, by reason of its comparative cleanliness, has 
a look almost arrogant among its neighbors. The 
pwn^r of the pass-key to that door is a young 


THE TRAGEDY IN BTWATER COURT. 


21 


woman, about whose comings and goings the easy 
virtue of Bywater Court concerns itself not at all. 
In the dialect of the neighborhood, “she keeps her- 
self to herself.” It is known that her “ man ” died 
since she came, and she had buried him with the 
grandest funeral that was ever seen in Bywater 
Court. The memory of this even yet shares the 
place of honor in the gin-soaked recollections of the 
gossips of the Court with the burning of the Carter’s 
Lane Mission Hall, which Bully Dan and his mates 
had set on fire because the athletic curate had 
expelled them neck and crop from the Sunday 
School for insubordination. 

“ Three months with hard ! They got off easy !” 
said By water Court. “ She’s got a kid she’d 'a been 
better without !” was the Court’s comment on the 
other case. 

But to-night there was a bitter quarrel raging 
above the herbalist’s shop. Sodden women pause 
for a moment, lift bleached and haggard faces 
towards the window, and stagger on, muttering of 
the knowledge born of bitter experience, “ He’s a- 
givin’ it ’er !” The sullen frequenters of the 
herbalist’s evil rendezvous are silenced by the zound 
of a quarrel deadlier than their own snarling mis- 
understandings. Through the jangle of tongues 
there comes fitfully the feeble wailing of a child. 

“ Saints in hivvun !” said Bridget Leary, “ they’re 
foightin' for the kid !” 

Bridget Leary was right. In the low-roofed, 
cheaply wall-papered room overhead, with the 
screened bedstead in the corner, a poor place made 
pathetic with touches of a woman’s taste, a man 


22 


▲ GALLOWAY HEKD. 


and a girl were standing on opposite sides of the 
deal table. The man stood erect, arms folded as 
only actors do on the stage. The woman, with her 
knuckles on the table, looked at her opponent under 
her heavy brows with sullen eyes of hate. A 
woman seldom looks long at a man whom she hates. 
When she does, if he is a wise man, he will go away 
from there. 

To think that I once cared for you, Herbert 
Peyton — that’s bitterer to me than death — ay, than 
his death. Now I hate you — hate you, do you 
hear !” The man addressed affected to turn away 
as though wearied by a play he had seen played out 
many times. 

** I’ve heard all that before, Nell ; heard it a 
hundred times,” he said. “ You’ll have your say 
out, and then you’ll hear reason. I’m doing it for 
your good, you know. It’s no use making a fuss. 
It’s got to be done. So give me the child at once — 
it’ll be well out of your way — well looked after, I 
mean. It’s all arranged, and then you leave this 
and come home with me.” 

The woman addressed as “ Nell ” stood leaning 
forward, meeting his easy sneer with level brows 
under which her dark, dilated pupils shone with a 
slumberous fire. She opened her mouth to speak, 
but was silent as though no words would come from 
her white, dry lips venomous enough to give her 
hate expression. 

The man watched her, his once handsome face 
puffed unwholesomely under the eyes, and his com- 
plexion mottled like the best india-rubber. The 
experienced eye set him down for what he was— 


THE TRAGEDY IN BYWATER COURT. 


23 


the vulgar impressario of a popular variety enter- 
tainment. He thought that he knew what women 
were — it was his boast as he clinked glasses at many 
a fashionable bar with knowing young aristocrats 
who came into his world, in order to add its vices 
to their own in the Devil’s amalgam which they 
called “ Life.” But now he was far from easy in 
his mind — so, like the brute he was, he tried the 
game of “ bluff.” He had far better have gone 
away. 

“ Now, listen,” he said. “ If you don’t give me 
the brat quietly, Nell, I tell you I’ll take him and 
put him away where you’ll never see him any more. 
And, what’s more. I’ll have you arrested for bigamy, 
and then what’ll become of the kid, I’d like to 
know. I can do it, and I will !” And he lifted his 
gloves from the table and made as if he would go. 

The woman spoke. Her voice, naturally low and 
sweet, had harsh falsetto notes in it now. 

“ I’d kill both him and me first — ay, and you too,” 
she said. “ You deceived me once, Herbert Peyton — 
lied to me at Paris, lied to me at Boulogne, lied to 
me in London, and left me without a farthing. 
You had word sent to me from America that you 
were dead — would to God it had been true — and I 
married a man that loved me — married him good 
and honest — ” 

“ Bah,” said the man. “ How could you marry ? 
And if you did, you married a drunken loafer that 
never drew a sober breath — ” 

“ Hold your lying tongue, Herbert Peyton. Don’t 
anger me, or I may kill you !” 

The man came round the corner of the table as if 


24 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


to get at her, but turning suddenly, he seized the 
child as it lay asleep on the counterpane, having 
dropped over innocently in the midst of the strife 
of tongues. As he lifted the child roughly, it awoke 
with a shrill and bitter cry — a cry of appeal to the 
mother heart that could not go unanswered. The 
feeding-bottle which had been lying on the side of 
the coverlet whipped over the bedside and fell on 
the floor. With an oath the man kicked at it and 
sent it crashing against the wall. For a short 
moment the young mother stood motionless, one 
hand pressed hard against her waist, then with 
sudden return of power she sprang to the table, 
something flashed in her hand, and before the man 
could turn, cumbered with the child as he was, he 
stumbled forward, and a pain like that of burning 
with red-hot iron ran through his side, and the 
waves of a great ocean thundered in his ears. He 
sank down on the bed from which he had just lifted 
the child. The mother took the child, which crowed 
with joy at the steady flare of the gas. There was 
a bright stain on the whiteness of its dress. 

The man opened his heavy eyes, from which the 
fear had gone out. “ You’ve done for me, this 
time, Nelly ; but, I say, you looked handsomer than 
ever !” 


THE FLIGHT BY NIGHT. 


25 


CHAPTER V. 

THE FLIGHT BY NIGHT. 

As a great, high-panelled door swung open upon 
a narrow side street, a strange, clean scent mingled 
of chloride of lime and carbolic acid rushed out 
upon the night air. A wayfarer, hastening home 
belated from his office, turned to see whence it 
came. He had seen that door a hundred times, but 
he had never known that it led into the great 
Central Hospital, whose front occupied a hundred 
yards of the thoroughfare from which this lane 
branched off. He saw one of the Sisters of the 
hospital, carrying a swathed bundle, come quickly 
into the open street. A cab stood in front of the 
entrance. He noted that she opened the door of a 
“ growler,” and said a word to the cape-swathed 
driver, who took no notice — then she beckoned to 
some other person still in the shadow of the great 
doorway. So much he saw as he stood a moment 
on his heel. Had he stood a moment longer he had 
been on the high road to fortune, for his office was 
in Scotland Yard, and Scotland Yard was interested 
in young women leaving town that night. But he 
saw a tall man whom he knew as the house surgeon 
of the Central Hospital, and he said to himself : 
“ They are sending off a nurse to a private case !” 
From sheer force of habit he turned once more as 
he reached the corner, and noted that the cab 
turned towards Waterloo Bridge. 


26 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


The Paris night mail!” he said to himself. 
“Some half-pay admiral sick across the Channel !” 
for he was a man accustomed to rapid inference. 
So filing the circumstance in his memory as another 
leaf in the shifting chronicle of the world, he dis- 
missed the matter, and went on, jingling his latch- 
key along with two coppers in his pocket, and won- 
dering if his little girl would be off to bed. He 
had been hoping all day that she would not. 

But the growler speedily turned northward again, 
through the sullen spaces of Lincoln’s Inn, and held 
steadily north towards the Euston Road. As the 
cab passed under the massive arches, a man stand- 
ing in the shadow signalled to another further in, 
who instantly went up and politely opened the 
door. The porters were polite that night to solitary 
females at the Euston Station. 

“ Where for, ma’am ?” asked the man. “ Black- 
port Convalescent, with pass from Central Hospital,” 
said the Sister, giving him a slip of blue paper 
from a side pocket in the ready way of the experi- 
enced traveler. “Quite right, ma’am, change at 
Preston. Shall I label your luggage ?” 

“ I have no luggage,” said the woman, alighting, 
“ but you can label me if you like.” The man 
glanced at the pretty lay sister, and he was human. 

“ No use doing that,” he said. “ You know your 
way about.” So he put her into a carriage and 
marked it “ Engaged.” “ Now you’ll not be dis- 
turbed. No, thank you all the same,” said the 
humanized amateur porter. “ It is a pleasure to do 
anything. Do you live at the Central always ?” 

But the lay sister only smiled as the carriage 


THE FLIGHT BY NIGHT. 


27 


moved out from the platform. So all the night the 
train clashed and snorted on its way, flashed past 
rows of lights into the darkness again, undulated 
like a swift swimming eel on the long down grades, 
panted and gasped on the heavy up grades like a 
great beast driven beyond its powers. And alone 
in her corner the lay sister of the Central Hospital 
sat, and held her charge to her breast, answering 
the infrequent demand for tickets with the same 
blue oblong which had been so sufficient with the 
man who first opened the cab. She was now white 
and still, and her lips moved as though she were 
speaking ; but she only shifted her babe occasion- 
ally and fed it otit of a new feeding-bottle. Then 
she faced the whirling dark again and looked out 
with the same hopeless, set look, dully counting the 
telegraph poles as their dark shadows glided by, 
and as the door opened at the stations she started 
as one that dreads a pursuer. She did not, how- 
ever, change at Preston, but only took another blue 
paper out of her pocket-book. During the long 
run to Carlisle, she did change, however, and as a 
lay sister vanished from the northern mail. 

The morning was fully broken when she got out 
on the desolate platform of Cairn Edward Station. 
The babe still slept on her arm the untroubled 
sleep of healthy babyhood. 

She uncovered its face and looked a long look ; 
she wished that it would open its eyes. The flush 
of the sunrise was on the infant, like the promise of 
the day spring from on high. The young woman 
stooped and kissed the boy who lay on her breast, 
unconscious of the clouded eyes of despair that 


28 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


looked upon him. The station-master — a broad, 
abrupt, burly man — came to speak to her. She was 
now plainly dressed as a young widow of the mid- 
dle classes, and his heart went out to her. She 
seemed to claim friendship and counsel. 

“ Were ye expectin’ onybody to meet ye ?” he 
asked. 

“ No,” she replied ; “ but I would like some con- 
veyance to take me to a place they call Drum- 
quhat.” 

“ D’ye ken Saunders M’Quhirr ?” asked the 
station-master, with a delighted ring in his voice. 
“ Come ben the hoose an’ the mistress’ll sune get 
ye a dish o’ tea an’ something to eat — an’ for the 
bit bairn, too !” he said, noticing the child with a 
married man’s understanding. “ Come yer ways ; 
oots, lassie, I hae three lasses o’ my ain.” Soon 
they were installed, and the mistress, a buxom, 
capable woman, of somewhat less frank manner 
than her husband, gave them not unkindly wel- 
come. 

“ Ay, an’ ye are gaun to Drumquhat. Ye’ll hae 
come a lang road, nae doot, though ye got yer 
ticket at Carlisle. Dear, sirce, to think that 
Saunders is here this verra mornin’ truckin’ four 
truck o’ nowt beas’ for Fa’kirk Tryst. He wull be 
gled to see ye. I’ll see gin he’s at the cattle slip.” 
And out the good man bustled to find Saunders. 
In a minute or two he brought him to the door, a 
tall, slightly stooped Galloway farmer, with a 
shrewd and kindly face. He stood looking with 
a very world of pity and wonder in his eyes at the 


THE FLIGHT BY NIGHT. 29 

Stranger who stood np before him with a dumb 
look of appeal in her eyes. 

“ My puir lass,” he said, “ ye did richt to come to 
Drumquhat. The mistress will sune get ye some 
color intil yer cheeks. Ay, ay ; we’ll juist gang 
hame the noo. The suner the bairn gets under 
cover the better !” and he took a long look at the 
child. 

As he helped her into the sturdy, battered market 
gig, he saw that the water was running steadily 
down her thin cheeks. He was too wise and ex- 
perienced to say a single word, but he laid his 
hand gently on the young girl’s arm, saying only 
after a pause, “ Whosoever cometh unto me — ” 

“ Oh, that’s not for me. It can never be for me !” 
she broke in. 

And Saunders M’Quhirr did not contradict her in 
word.s, but the touch of his hand on her arm did 
not waver. So they drove through the dewy lanes, 
till from the crown of the high Dullarg moorland 
they saw the tree tops of Drumquhat. Saunders 
went in for a quick word with his wife before the 
visitor had descended. As they came out Saunders 
was saying to his wife, “ And the bairn’s a rael 
An’erson o’ Deeside !” 

This is what the Mistress of Drumquhat said to 
her visitor : 

“Ye’ve gotten a stormy nicht to travel sae far, 
but a bonny mornin’ to come to Drumquhat, where 
we are a’ gled to see you.” 

And she took the babe into her own strong and 
motherly arms, where he nestled close, instinctively 
feeling the security and strength of them. As she 


30 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


took a long, steady look at his face, something 
caught her eye. 

“ Save ns, what’s that >” she said. 

But the visitor had already gone in at the back 
door with Saunders. They did not use the front 
door much at Drumquhat save when the minister 
came. 

It was a long, irregular stain on the child’s white 
dress that she saw. 


CHAPTER VI. 

A PEACEFUL SUMMER’S DAY AT DRUMQUHAT. 

Drumquhat was a moor-farm of moderate size, 
set on one of the highest eminences of the re- 
claimed ploughland. There were half a dozen 
fields known in the terms of the lease as “ arable 
but they owed their distinction to Saunders 
M’Quhirr and his father, who had come to Drum- 
quhat when the heather grew right to the front 
door. Drumquhat looked down on the fields — a 
white square fortalice of buildings, with a crown of 
splendid beech foliage springing clear of the roofs 
out of the interior of the parallelogram. It had 
a gray and massive aspect, set foursquare to the 
winds of heaven, its stables, byres, and barns loop- 
holed as for musketry. The dwelling-house at the 
southern side looked down to the flome of the 
Whinnyliggate Moss, through which a slow burn of 


A PEACEFUL SUMMEr’s DAY AT DRUMQUHAT. 3 I 

peaty water worked itself towards the village of the 
same name half a mile away. The whins of its 
naming made a glimmer like fire all along the 
banks even in the brightness of morning. Beyond 
the fields, now green with the braird of the corn, 
and the tender moist verdure of the first grass, the 
black peat mosses hemmed in the low farm build- 
ings and their clump of trees. They gloomed up 
aloft, with lowering eyebrows of purple shadows in 
the moss-hags ; the heather of last year showed not 
the least sign of life, save where, along the borders, 
the curled shepherd’s crooks of the bracken were 
beginning to rise stiffly. To the north, over the 
village, the land rose into what, for the south of 
Scotland, might be called mountains, but on every 
other side the mossy Jlowes with their gashed and 
scarred edges looked down upon the farm and its 
forty acres of ploughland as though threatening 
some day to overwhelm it with a glutinous inun- 
dation of peat. 

The farm-dwelling known as the “hoose,” was of 
one story, and meandered round the corner of the 
square of “ office houses ” as one piece after 
another had been added to suit the increasing needs 
of the tenants. There was a multiplicity of doors 
also, to the front and to the back, the front ones 
giving upon the grassy, broad walk, which separ- 
ated the white- washed houses from the irregular 
square of orchard-garden which ran down the slope 
towards the well. One of the doors to this side 
was plain, and of a dusky weather-beaten blue. 
The other was a door with panels, and had been 
once painted in fair imitation of oak ; but the south 


32 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


winds, rain-laden from the Solway, had beaten it 
too sore for any such pretence to stand, and its 
natural yellow pine stood plain and shameless in 
the searching light of the morning. This door was 
now wide open, and through it ran a sturdy boy of 
five or six, shouting to the morning sun for glad- 
ness, who, as soon as he got clear of the house, 
picked up a stone from the path and threw it with 
indifferent aim but terrible earnestness at a red 
heifer which had set a pink and viscid nose over 
the little stile which led through the sheltering 
“ plantin’ ” into the field beyond. Then the boy 
stood still, listening for something, again turned 
away, and, as if his gladness needed some sufficient 
expression, he turned a double somersault with his 
hands on the ground, heedless of consequences, 
gray kilts whirling in the air, and yelled for no 
sufficient cause whatever. Then, catching sight of 
some one’s white cap coming up the long loaning 
from the spring, he ran as hard as he could down 
the road to help the mistress of the house to bring 
up a couple of cans of water. As he reached his 
friend the little boy ran full tilt into her dress of 
blue druggit as she stood resting with arms akimbo, 
and a placid smile of tolerant greeting. 

“ Walter !” she said, “ wi’, boy, is that ony wey to 
behave ?” And the smile on her face showed that 
she thought that it was a very good way to behave. 


WEE WAITIE AN’eKSON. 


33 


CHAPTER VII. 

WEE WATTIE An’eRSON. 

As Mrs. M’Quhirr rested from the labor of carry- 
ing the pails of water up the road from the well, 
she looked with a certain buxom complaisance at 
the boy who hid a curly head hilariously under her 
white apron, and even stretched a roving hand 
towards the sacred recesses of the roomy house- 
wife’s “ pooch,” which dangled by her side. “ Wal- 
ter !” she said in a tone of severe intimidation, but 
the boy knew his ground far too well to be intimi- 
dated. As her own grown-up children often said, 
“ that boy ” could do things that not one of her own 
had dared to do even when they were “ man- 
muckle.” 

“ Where’s your mither, Walter ?” she said in a 
softer tone. 

The boy was taking a walk round her as if her 
ample skirts were a circus tent. He stopped 
abruptly in his hide and seek. Another expression 
came across his face, and he said, succinctly : 

“She’s risin’ !” 

Mrs. M’Quhirr did not pursue the subject, but it 
was obvious that the feelings with which she re- 
garded the boy were not extended in their fullness 
to the mother who at nine o’clock of this beautiful 
June morning was “ risin’.” The life of the farm- 
town began early. The mistress had been stirring 


34 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


and getting’ others astir soon after half-past three 
that morning. 

I’ll see to your gettin’ up,” she used to say, “ an’ 
ye can please yoursels as to when ye gang to yer 
beds.” 

Shrewd, kindly, clever, managing, with a “ clip in 
her speech ” that the stranger might mistake for ill- 
temper — Mrs. Alexander M’Quhirr, “ Mistress Mac- 
Whurr o’ Drumquhat ” to all the world, ‘‘ Mary ” to 
her own man, who was of opinion that she was a 
special creation, the guidwife of the comfortable 
farmer, Saunders M’Quhirr, was a “ kenned woman ” 
through all the parish. She kept the whole of the 
personelle of the establishment up to the mark, and 
her mark was a mark a little higher than that of 
anybody else. It was no mean character to a young 
woman to be able to say that she had stopped two 
years with Mrs. M’Quhirr. Yet, though the service 
at Drumquhat could not be called an easy one, it 
was performed with such a birr and cheerfulness 
that there was not a heartsomer place in all the 
countryside than the moor farm under the brow of 
the Dullarg peat-hags. 

The two friends returned to the house, entering 
by the plain, unpanelled kitchen door, within the 
cool shade at the back of which the cans of cool, 
clear water were set down, a wooden cog hanging 
on a nail beside them for a dipper, so that when 
Walter or any of the “ men-folk ” came in tired and 
hot from work or play, there was refreshment of 
the purest at hand. Walter stayed now a moment 
or two to watch the dancing golden lights thread 
themselves in the bottom of the can as the limpid 


WEIi WATTIE An’eRSON. 


35 


spring water settled itself to rest. This was, indeed, 
a thing that he often took a pilgrimage to see, for 
Walter Anderson was a naturalist even when he 
was the “ weest of wee Watties.” The freedom of 
all that citizenship of the air and the waters was 
conferred upon the boy, who had been born in the 
“ rickle o’ bricks ” by the side of the Cesspool of 
the Nations. And to the quiet mother, with her 
limited horizons, and the clouded haze of memory 
which so happily blurred the past, this boy with his 
clear appreciation of the mysteries of the world was 
quite incomprehensible. Gifted with a personal 
attractiveness which had the dangerous property of 
not being in the least able to help its power, the 
beautiful “widow o’ a far-oot freen’,” as Saunders 
M’Quhirr explained his sudden visitor to the 
countryside, had long done havoc among the hearts 
of the choicest swains of the six parishes. But as 
yet nothing had come of it, and after nearly five 
years she was still at Drumquhat, just as much a 
fixture, and no more, than she had been that morn- 
ing when Saunders went over to Cairn Edward 
Station to “ truck the nowt beas’,” and had brought 
back another and a heavier charge. 

But her boy had done a work for her that she, 
with her town-bred ignorance and pretty, helpless 
indolence, could never have done for herself. He 
had wrapped himself round the very heart’s core of 
Mary M’Quhirr, and taken the place of that first- 
born son who had been taken from her just at this 
most enticing age of flying curl and chattering 
tongue, a place that all her stalwart sons had never 
been able to fill. As long as the cares of their 


36 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


upbringing had lain heavy upon her, she had not 
thought of her lost boy, or thought only whiles in 
the silent watches ; but it was different now when 
there were no young voices teasing her with their 
heart-comforting din. So Walter had been a gift 
to her, and had he been taken away from her, I 
verily believe she, though a God-fearing woman, 
would have reproached God, and hidden her face, 
mourning, and refusing to be comforted. Strangely, 
too, her love for the boy made her more kindly to 
her husband, with whose slow, thoughtful, book- 
reading ways she was not always in sympathy ; and 
when she gave him the benefit of a piece of her 
mind for his good, it was a better mind than it used 
to be, judging by the sample. 

So with small farewell, as she whom he called 
“ gran” moved busily about her kitchen, chattering 
and bounding, Walter betook himself to his own 
peculiar haunts with his dog Yarrow. There was 
stuff in this lad of five wherewith to occupy himself 
to his own satisfaction during all the day. As he 
went out of the farm-yard between the peat-stack 
and the long fodder sheds, as yet empty of the 
high-piled hay, a voice held him for a moment. 

“ Where are ye gaun, Wattie ? To the steppin’ 
stanes ; then tak’ care an’ no’ fa’ in !” it said, but 
the small boy was off as hard as his twinkling legs 
could carry him. As soon as he was out of sight 
he turned down a burnside, his feet splashing 
through the shallow water, and diving into a leafy 
covert he sat down by a large flat stone. Taking 
off his brass-latched clogs, and his “ rig-and-fur ” 
Stockings, both the providing of his beloved foster- 


WEE WATTIE An’eRSON. 


37 


mother, he put them carefull)’’ under the stone, in a 
commodious receptacle formed by the convenient 
“ pot-hole ” in which long ago a glacier torrent had 
ground the soil on which the farmer of Drumquhat 
grew his oats. There they companied with a 
unique collection of sheep’s teeth, an article of 
vcrtu in which Walter was a connoisseur, feathers 
of all descriptions, plain brown of hen, glossy blue 
of duck, strong grey goose wing ; here also in 
match-boxes were some eggs with blow-holes into 
which the naturalist could put his finger, curious 
knots from the smooth sides of beech trees, which 
it was one of the delights of Wattie’s life to hunt 
for and knock off with the long stick his “ Uncle 
Alick ” had cut for him ; chiefest treasure of all, 
there was a strange twisted knife in smooth ivory 
sheath, yellow like the ring which he had cut his 
teeth upon. The knife part was held fast in some 
mysterious way, and though Wattie had tried for 
hours to open it, he had never yet succeeded. He 
had found it after the long drought of the spring in 
a peat-hag up on the moor, and aware, by some 
boy’s instinct, that if he showed it, it would be 
taken from him, he kept this secret in his heart, 
and went into the cool seclusion of the burnside, 
where the rocks came out from under their cover- 
ing of turf, to worship this wonderful thing which 
had fallen down from heaven for him alone. But 
to-day he hardly handled it, for as soon as he could 
conceal the traces of his presence and merge from 
the little birch-hung glen, he was off at the top of 
his speed over the smooth meadows. He trod on 
air. He felt the fresh, soft grass smite his feet with 


38 


A GALrx^>WAY HERD. 


a dewy kiss, and the wind brush his temples like 
the tassels of invisible trees. He was glad to live. 
It was such a joyous thing to be so near the grass 
and smell the earth. Yarrrow, noble but lazy dog, 
pretended to gallop and roll with as mad a glee 
over the meadow grass as his master, but really he 
thought it was too hot for such frivolities. Besides, 
he always went on his own bare feet, and therefore 
did not know the wild excitement of the first mad, 
barefooted rush over the springing grass. When 
he got down to where the river or brook dimpled 
over the stones, he settled himself for a glorious 
day. There were great dragon flies about, concern- 
ing which he told himself wonderful tales, and 
affected a delicious fear whenever one of the blue, 
gauzy arrows came too near him. The “ Stepping 
Stones ” were a row of granite steps, rude and 
waterworn, on which many generations of feet had 
trodden, but which were set too far apart for 
Walter’s twinkling bare feet and kilted legs. In 
any village Walter would have attained through 
ridicule to the dignity of trousers, but living with- 
out boyish companion, he had been kept long in the 
breezy freedom of the simpler garment. Yarrow 
went across like a rocket, and was soon lost to sight 
ranging among the low brushwood on the opposite 
bank. Walter would have followed him at once 
but the water was too deep for him at the farther 
side, and he was obliged to turn back. He looked 
about to see how he might get across. He saw his 
uncles,” the sons of the farm, along with Joe the 
farm boy, working at the “ turnip-howing ” on the 
rise of the green hill above him, and he niade a 


WEK WATTIE An’eRSON. 


39 


straight course towards them. Arrived he pro- 
ceeded, by his own methods of steady persistence, 
the original methods of the Importunate Widow, to 
tease Aleck, the best natured of the company — and 
one not loath to leave W'ork — to accompany him 
across to the other side, and give him the needed 
“ carry ” over the deep place at the ford. This, 
after numerous denials, Aleck did, playing upon the 
boy’s fears, with the teasing jocosity of nineteen, 
and the consciousness of unlimited strength and 
lusty feeding. He took him in his arms, and when 
in mid-stream pretended to dip the boy in, or throw 
him into “ Black Duncan,” the gloomy pool W'here 
it is recorded that the drunken terror of the country- 
side had gone to his account many years ago, and 
where his spectre still walked — a head and a pair of 
Wellington boots, lacking the connecting body — a 
most gruesome hiatus 

Then, at the farther side, Walter was dismissed 
with an advice never to come bothering again, and 
left to pursue his way. This he did to the cottage 
upon the hillside, a retreat of such perfection of 
situation that, but for the midges in summer, it was 
the ideal of an earthly paradise. Bowered in 
creepers and roses, at the end of a dainty wooded 
loaning, overhanging the burn, it was an ideal spot 
for a retreat. It was held at this its best time by 
Miss Katie Fraser, an aged maiden lady who had 
come to live there in her declining years, and with 
whom there dwelt intermittently, two nephews and 
a niece. When the tired small boy, moving cau- 
tiously up the narrow path from the stepping 
stones, for the better avoidance of thorns, reached 


40 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


the front of the cottage, Miss Fraser, who had 
seen him coming, and was fond of the lad, 
came out, with her ample black lace cap and stiff 
side curls, to give him welcome, 

“ Come awa’ into the garden, Wattie, an’ thou 
shalt hae a bonny posy,” were her words of greet- 
ing. 

“ I wad raither hae a piece returned that practi- 
cal-minded youth, whose barefooted athletics were 
giving him an appetite. 

The kindly old lady laughed a hearty laugh, and 
turning all her good-natured bulk, like a three- 
decker of Nelson’s time standing by to go about, 
she led the way into her little parlor, where the 
roses looked in at the window, and from which the 
moors of Drumquhat seemed in another world alto- 
gether. There the two set about turning out what 
good things there were in the corner cupboard of 
shiny brown mahogany, and finally sat down to 
feast like children on bread and honey — bread 
which had been brought two days before by the 
local carrier, and honey, rich and grained, “ rowned,” 
as Miss Katie said, by standing since the back-end 
of the year before. 

So the two sat and gossiped, and Walter told of 
the shameless defection of Yarrow, and of the dire 
vengeance that was about to descend on his head 
when his master caught him, till at last Miss Kate 
got an opening for her question : 

“And hoo is yer mither, Walter ?” she said, with 
an off glance at him. 

“ She was risin’!” once more unwillingly repeated 
the lad. 


AN EVENING MEETING ON THE MOOR. 


41 


And Miss Katie’s look woiild have soured cream, 
as she said herself, for she had no opinion of those 
who lay long abed. Now, though she herself was 
in the tranquil enjoyment of a very modest com- 
petency, she rose at six and got the dew o’ the 
morning, keeping in consequence a cheek not un- 
comely till far beyond the threescore and ten. 

Then she took the boy on her knee, for, being a 
spinster of grace, she had a great love of children, 
and she felt that if it had been her lot, “ as I’m 
thankfu’ it wasna,” to be married, Walter was the 
kind of son she would have liked. Then Miss 
Katie sighed a long sigh, and Walter kicked his 
bare feet together and wondered ungratefully when 
she was going to put him down ; and if, when she 
did, she Would give him any more of the bread and 
honey. He took short views of life — affection was 
very well, but the honey was better. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

AN EVENING MEETING ON THE MOOR. 

Nelly Anderson, the young widow of Saunders 
M’Quhirr’s “ far*oot freen’,” stood with her back to 
the sunset, her hands held behind her waist, and 
every line of her splendid figure cut sharp against 
the splendor of the west. There were few more 
beautiful sights in Scotland that June evening. 
Archibald Grierson, fresh from his college training. 


42 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


knew that there was none. He had been sitting on 
the shaggy island of heather and gray bent which 
formed the crown of the long, level ascent of the 
moor. The deep hags made by the peat cuttings of 
former years islanded him about. It had been his 
favorite haunt as a student, long before any such 
splendid vision as this came towards him like the 
embodied goddess of the twilight walking beside 
the gloomy borders of the Dullarg Flowe. Many a 
day had he lain prone on the heather and listened 
to the moor-birds, the Jack-snipe whirling high in 
the lift and crossing the brightness of the sky with 
its stooping swirls, uttering at the same time that 
wailing whimper which is like the cry of a lost soul. 
But the moorland solitudes spoke to him now as 
they had never done before, for first love brings 
out the meanings of nature. Each sound and color 
speak with meanings so fresh and strange that new 
eyes seem to be given to the lover, and he wonders 
in the contempt of newly aequired insight, what 
blindness can have held him so long. 

Archibald Grierson, late student of Edinburgh 
College, looked at the woman who had walked 
carelessly along the winding track from the farm. 
He had seen her come from afar off with the lover’s 
second sight, for in the interval of his reading he 
had noted every movement of human creature and 
beastial about the farm of Drumquhat that day. 
The peace of the life of a farm, when it is looked 
down upon from above, seems the quietest and most 
desirable on the face of the earth. So when a flut- 
ter of white appeared among the beech trees and a 
figure moved out of the beech crowned quadrangle 


AN EVENING MEETING ON THE MOOR. 


43 


into the open, the heart of the watcher on the 
Flowe went like a trip hammer, and a keen and 
stinging sensation akin to pain thrilled through his 
veins. The figure, which not even the eye of 
Saunders M'Quhirr could have made out at that 
distance, was plainly apparent to the eye that had 
watched all the day, and many days, for just that 
gleam of white, and that easy, unconscious sway of 
limbs in perfect movement. Nell Anderson was in- 
finitely handsomer as a woman of twenty-four than 
ever she had been as a girl. The old hunted, post- 
to-pillar life was, to her mind, past and done with, 
buried out of sight and largely out of remembrance. 
Something seemed to have cut it off quickly — an 
illness or something — she was not sure what, and 
she did not wish to know ; and the haven of peace 
which the farm among the Galloway moors had 
been to her had brought out all the beauties of per- 
fect physical womanhood, while the reposefulness of 
her soul spoke from her eyes. Archie Grierson had 
made many comparisons for those eyes ; but he had 
never confided any of them to her. There was a 
certain dignity, or perhaps a lack of comprehension, 
about Nell Anderson's manner when any rural 
swain made her a clumsy compliment which pre- 
vented its repetition. Archie Grierson was far too 
reverent of his ideal to risk such a rebuff. Enough 
that he was permitted to talk to her and look at her. 
Well was he aware that his observance was no more 
than the gaze of the red-and-white Ayrshire cows 
among which she loved to wander. He would have 
given twenty years of his young life had he been 
able to tell himself that even possibly the feet of 


44 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


his goddess had been turned towards the moss on 
his account. But he knew better. 

He rose to his feet, a tall, square-shouldered Scot 
of the blonde Norwegian type so common in 
Galloway, and with the easy strides of the hillman 
came towards her over the moor. Nell Anderson 
did not see him coming till he was within fifty 
yards. When she caught sight of him, he thought 
that there was a slight contraction of her smooth 
brows under her broad hat as she turned to greet 
him. He came forward gently, with worlds of 
expression in the blue eyes that had more of Ireland 
than Norway in their depths. The young widow, 
who was still a girl, smiled faintly, and held out her 
hand with a movement spontaneous and frank, but 
she did not speak. Indeed, she spoke but seldom, 
though she had that strange quality which is often 
possessed by women with a history, that her silence 
said unutterable things. 

They stood together looking over the solemn 
moors and the peaceful strath where the smoke of 
the evening supper fires was beginning to shoot up 
into the still air. The sun showed just a rim over 
the rounded top of Cairnsmore Hill, far up near the 
sources of the Black Water. There was so strong a 
likeness between these two that they might have 
been brother and sister, though she whom the parish 
knew as Nelly Anderson had been born and brought 
up in the heart ot London. 

“ Do you often come here, Mrs. Anderson 
asked Archibald Grierson, breaking the silence with 
the cunning of a diplomat, for as a matter of fact n6 


AN EVENING MEETING ON THE MOOR 


45 


one knew so well as himself that she had not been 
on the moor for at least nine months. 

“ Well, no, Archie,” replied the girl, frankly, 
turning her eyes, gray with a violet shadow caught 
from the sunset within them, full upon him. 
“ Generally I go to the water-side or through the 
fields with Walter.” Archie Grierson started. He 
had forgotten that there were more than two people 
in the world, and with the natural jealousy of the 
extremely youthful lover, he did not care to think 
that there had been any past to this woman whom 
he loved, before he knew her. 

“ And where is Walter to-night ?” he asked, glad 
to interest her by any means if she would only look 
at him while she talked. 

“ He’s not back yet from the fields with the 
‘ boys’,” she said a little sadly. “ Aleck said that he 
put him over the water to see Miss Fraser before 
dinner time, and he has stayed with her.” 

It was a strange fashion in which she loved her 
boy, for she showed no jealousy when his active 
habits kept him long away from her, or when he 
seemed to prefer his “ gran ” or the “ boys.” 

“ You’ve got the finest sunset to-night that has 
been seen this year from the moor,” said Archie. 
“ You know, I do a great part of my work up here,” 
he added, as though his presence needed an apol- 
ogy. “ I saw Saunders as he went through the 
sheep.” 

“ What is the book you are studying ?” she asked, 
taking it from his hand. The young man blushed 
to his eyes. It was no work of a hard-worked stu- 
dent, but a volume of Tennyson. His companion 


46 


A GALLOWAY HKKD. 


glanced at it carelessly, yet with a gaze of wistful 
desire. 

Read it to me,” she said. 

The young man took the book with a tumult of 
rejoicing in his heart. He had never thought of any- 
thing so hopeful and delightful as to read the words 
of the poet of love to the woman he adored, all alone 
with her on the wide face of the moorland under 
the glory of the dying day. His heart beat faster 
as he opened the book, fluttered the leaves with a 
rapid hand, and hesitated between the passionate 
odes and the love-laden lyrics which it contained, 
for the book he held in his hand was the old green- 
covered copy of Maud, which has long been the 
lover’s Baedeker to the country of his desires. 
Nelly Anderson leaned against the dyke, and made 
a splendid picture of imconscious grace by clasping 
her white hands behind her head. Her eyes were 
full of twilight mysteries and a certain yearning 
wistfulness which desired to understand itself, yet 
was not able. Archibald Grierson thought how, if 
she would but let him, he could teach her a new 
life, and a higher satisfaction for her spirit than any 
she dreamt of ; but as yet he was conscious that he 
was speaking to her as sailors cry to each other in a 
narrow channel when the mists have hidden the 
rocks. Archie read poetry well, with a fresh un- 
conventionality, a rushing, lover-like dan which 
might have carried away a girl’s heart not filled full 
of vague memories and uncertainties. Yet this 
girl with the woman’s heart and the woman’s hard 
experience behind her placid beauty, listened as 


AN EVENING- MEETING ON THE MOOR. 4/ 

though the burning words of the poet were but the 
wind over the moor. 

And so Archibald Grierson read on and on, and 
the gold overhead darkened into crimson, and 
looked not up till, with a flush on his cheek and a 
breaking thrill in his voice, he finished the long- 
drawn lyrical cry of the lover, and reached the 
heart-broken despair of the conclusion. 

“ Do I hear her sing as of old, 

My bird with the shining head. 

My own dove with the tender eye ? 

But there rings on a sudden a passionate cry. 

There is some one dying or dead." 

Nelly Anderson stood suddenly erect. The 
dazed expression went out of her eyes. There came 
a sudden tide of horror and understanding in 
them. 

“ No, no, no !” she said, with swift impetuosity 
and vehement expression. “ You must not read 
that — I cannot bear it.” 

The reader stopped, taken by the throat at this 
strange thing. He had no word to say, but looked 
uncomprehendingly at her, as the light faded slowly 
from her eye and the blood ebbed from her cheek. 
She was silent for long, and looked towards the 
place where the sun had gone down, and from 
which there streamed back purple lines of sunset 
clouds, making a glorious wake for the sunken 
Lightship of the World. 

“ You will forgive me,” he said, simply ; “ I 
should not have read so long. Forgive me before I 
go ; I must get home before dark.” 


48 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


“ Ah ! it is all dark for me !” said Nelly Ander- 
son. As Archibald Grierson passed the farm 
buildings of Drumquhat with his long, swinging 
strides, he was hailed by one of the “ boys." He 
turned and saw that there was an unusual stir 
about the place. Men and women came and went, 
and some were moving down to the water-side with 
lanterns. They deemed to be searching for some- 
thing. 

What’s the matter ?’’ he called out. 

Wee Wattie has been lost on the hills ever since 
ten this mornin’. Come and help us to look for 
him !" 


CHAPTER IX. 

A NIGHT ON THE MOORS. 

It is now darkening toward the night, and a small 
and dilapidated boy thinks that it is time to be turn- 
ing homeward. For one thing, he wishes that he 
had the shoes which he took off so gaily in the morn- 
ing. He sees quite clearly the stone under which 
they lie so quiet, and he longs still more for the 
curious knife with the queer criss-crosses on the 
sheath. It is true that it would not come out, but 
he would feel safer if he were fully armed. The 
sun has travelled a long way since he left the hill- 
side cottage where Miss Katie dowered him with a 
farewell “ piece ’’ in addition to the orgie which they 
had held in the parlor. Walter wishes heartily now 


A NIGHT ON THE MOORS. 


49 


that he could see the blue smoke shooting upward 
which would tell him that he was in the neighbor- 
hood of that cottage among the roses. But he has 
wandered on all day, light-hearted as the birds, fol- 
lowing the bent of his twinkling feet, sore and 
scratched now with the heather stubs. By dint of 
sawing for an indefinite time with a pocket knife 
perfectly innocent of edge, and whose blunt condi- 
tion was one of Walter’s most painful trials, he has 
managed to cut the straight, green shoot of a hazel 
and trim it into a weapon of defence, but even thus, 
in spite of his best precautions, he felt the inade- 
quacy of his means of defence against the numerous 
tigers, leopards, and other wild beasts which in- 
fested the Galloway moors. 

But though Walter Anderson looked around, he 
saw nothing but the hilltops circling the horizon, too 
like one another to afford any guidance to a boy so 
near the level of the heather as he. Then he 
mounted to the top of a hillock of shaggy and 
matted heather and looked long for any glimpse of 
the treetops of Drumquhat. But he only saw the 
slow twilight of mild June creeping down over the 
brown moors ; and in the moist hollows of the bogs 
shallow pools of mist gathering. It was a lonely 
place, but it was a stout little heart that beat in the 
breast of the lad, and he had no idea of giving in, 
though the darkness threatened to come upon him 
far from his “ gran ” and the white farm square of 
Drumquhat. His mother, too, would have to take 
her walk down to the waterside by herself, and at 
the thought a tear almost forced itself out from 
under the unwilling eyelid. He knew that the cows 


50 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


were come lowing home and there would be no one 
to stand at the gate and cry : 

“ Hurley, Hurley ! Hie awa’ hame !” 

There is nothing so pathetic to a boy as the 
thought that he will be missed, and this remem- 
brance was the most grievous of all. Walter had 
no idea of how far his feet had brought him that 
day, nor yet of the direction in which he ought to 
return. The moorbirds came circling and calling 
plaintively around, and the pewits, reassured by 
the small size of the intruder, came as he thought 
offensively near. Whereupon Walter filled his 
pockets with numerous and appropriate pebbles to 
drive them away, feeling that the depth of all pos- 
sible humiliation would be to be interred by them. 
A sensible boy, even if he were going to die, did 
not want any “ Babes in the Wood " and “ Robin 
Redbreast ” nonsense. 

Before it was quite dark, the moon rose, and 
then Walter knew that his time was come in earn- 
est, for every boy knows that lions and tigers 
always hunt by moonlight. There was a great 
silence on the face of the moorland. It was bleached 
now and melted away into vague immensities and 
gray mysteries which vanished as you approached. 
Walter listened, and there came on the light night 
wind the sound of some animal trampling over hard 
ground, then a silence as if some intervening hil- 
lock kept back the sound, and then again the noise 
of feet beating nearer and nearer. 

Walter’s little heart went to his throat, he tried 


A NIGHT ON THE MOORS. 


51 


to cry out, but his voice would not come. He 
started up to run, but discovering that he had 
started without his hazel wand, his only means of 
defence save the saw pocket knife, he returned 
without a moment’s delay to the spot where he had 
left it. Having secured it, he applied himself with 
all his vigor to the task of running in the opposite 
direction from the threatening sounds. 

His progress could hardly be called running, for 
at every few steps he would trip in some intricate 
heather twist, tough as wire, and, falling forward, 
instinctively bend his supple body into the half hoop 
of the hedgehog, and so roll down the declivity, 
coming upon his feet at the bottom, and continuing 
his flight with unabated energy, and without a single 
moment’s pause to ascertain damages. Truly a 
providence watches over drunkards and children. 
This boy in a quarter of an hour took more risks of 
having his neck broken than a grown man would 
take in half a dozen years. All the while the moon 
shed down a grave and placid light on the kilted 
little lad with the white face as he fled from the 
unseen monster. 

At last Walter Anderson paused, not because he 
wished to do so, but because he had fallen into a 
moss hag up to the neck, and as he sustained him- 
self by a bush of blueberry plants and dug his toes 
into the soft, black peat, he heard the dread sounds 
dying away into the distance. In his flight he had 
crossed the unfenced road which leads across the 
great moors from the ancient, royal burgh of New 
Galloway by the Ken Water to the Newtown of the 
Stewarts on the borders of the shire. Down this 


52 


A GALLOWAY HEED. 


road five minutes after he crossed it, Archibald Grier- 
son came on one of the Drumquhat plough horses, 
making clumping Brown Bess gallop in a way that 
would have surprised Saunders M’Quhirr had he 
been there to see ; so near was Archie Grierson to 
his best chance of his sweetheart’s gratitude. 

But as he passed he saw nothing of the dew- 
drenched, bonnetless head of a little boy looking 
pitifully out of a moss hag, who felt sure in his in- 
most soul that he had just escaped the clutches of the 
Accuser of the Brethren.” 

So Walter Anderson thought it was time to say 
his prayers, and thus he prayed: “O Lord, for- 
give us our sins, and remember not our trans-some- 
things against us. Look down from heaven and 
help ” — (so far his petitions had run in the accus- 
tomed groove carefully modelled upon the prayer 
of Saunders the elder, but now the official supplica- 
tions broke down and the personal came in) — “ and 
help a wee laddie in a moss-hole. Keep him frae 
teegars an’ lions an’ bogles an’ black horses that 
come oot o’ the lochs an’ eat ye up, an’ frae green 
monkeys that hing on trees, an’ claw ye as ye gang 
by ; an’ gie me something to eat, for I’m near deid 
wi’ hunger, an’, my word, but I’ll warm Yarra 
(that’s my dowg) for rinnin’ awa’, when I catch him, 
an’ bless my mither an’ a’ inquirin’ freen’s, for Jesus’ 
sake. Amen !” 


THE BABES IN THE WOOD. 


53 


CHAPTER X. 

THE BABES IN THE WOOD. 

The June nights are merciful in Galloway, and 
it was not long before a broad bar of light lay 
across the eastern hills which shut out the plains of 
the Dee and the long glen of the Ken. The pale 
sea-green lingering in the west had not yet faded 
into ashy gray when the eastern sky began to 
flame. The clouds in the east through which the 
sun rose were long and parallel like ocean rollers 
combing towards a sandy shore, while the clouds of 
the sunset converged to a point as though the sun 
draws them flaming after him with the speed of his 
downward rush. Suddenly up sprang the sun over 
the low rounded summits to the south, and the 
shadows of every bush of bog myrtle and tuft of 
heather started westward, and the cool, blue image 
of a lonely upright boulder, like a Breton menhir^ 
lay for half a mile across the heather. On the 
.sunny side of this landmark the red rays fell on a 
bare and curly head, on which the dew sparkles 
just as it does on the yellowish gray bent upon 
which it is pillowed. Apparently the flaxen fleece 
which covers it is a sufficient protection, for the 
boy has taken his bonnet off and covered his feet 
with it. He lies curled up like a collie sleeping in 
the sun. He continues to sleep quietly and soundly 
with the undisturbed repose of childhood till the 


54 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


dew dies from off the heath and from the angles of 
sunny hair. 

At last he awakens, uncoils himself like a lithe 
young animal, starts to find himself under the 
greater canopy of heaven ; and with a shake of his 
kilt and a toss of his head, he rises, having com- 
pleted his toilet for the day. He has no fear now 
that there is the broad light of day on the moors. 
He thinks that it would not be such a bad thing to 
be lost on the hills if only plates of porridge were 
distributed at suitable distances. A pewit stoops 
toward him with a condescending dip and a flirt of 
the wings. He resents this, saying to himself, 
“ Foolish bird, to think to take me in !” and moves 
along in his own way, like a ranging greyhound, 
along the bare tops of the peat islands. The pewit 
flutters a broken wing, drops almost at his feet, but 
he does not cast even a tolerant eye on her best 
performances. There, at last, upon a bare place 
where the bent has been flattened, he finds what he 
has been seeking — two brown eggs unevenly 
blotched with black. Walter seizes them without 
the slightest compunctions. This is his breakfast, 
and they are soon professionally tapped and emptied 
with the knowing crook of the elbow which shows 
the “ heather-bred.” The pewit meanwhile screams 
herself hoarse. 

Shoo ! Go and lay other two !” says the boy, 
unfeelingly. “Any hen could do more than that.” 

He remembers with regret the time when he was 
allowed a penny for each dozen of “ laid away ” 
eggs that he found, a practice in which his “ gran ” 
encouraged him till she found that as the average 


THE BABES IN THE WOOD. 


55 


of “ found ” nests — that is, of nests made by hens in 
the fields for secret brooding purposes — increased, 
the number of eggs in the legitimate nests dimin- 
ished. Walter was rapidly waxing rich, but the 
whole hideous plot was laid bare one day when his 
“gran ” came suddenly upon him sliding cautiously 
towards the planting. 

“ What’s that ye’ve got aneath yer peenie, 
Wattie ?” she demanded. 

The peenie was lifted, and there, alas ! were 
discovered two newly laid eggs which the small 
financier was conveying to the better investments 
of an outlaw nest which in due time would be 
“found,” and a penny claim made upon it. His 
“ gran,” who had hitherto held Walter immaculate, 
once more became sound on the doctrine of Original 
Sin. Saunders proposed that the boy be delivered 
to his mother with a request for an application of 
Solomon’s cure. 

“ ‘ Warm backs, guid bairns,’ my ain mither used 
to say,” he remarked, sententiously. 

“ An’ a bonny job she made o’ ye !” replied his 
spouse, dispassionately, for she claimed a monopoly 
of the moral sentiments in the household. “ Na, 
na ; I’ll manage the boy mysel’.” . 

So for several days Walter walked disconsolate in 
the cold shades of his dear “ gran’s ” averted coun- 
tenance. 

Breakfast being over so quickly, the lost boy 
tramped away over the moor, sure that he must 
come out somewhere. He was as merry as the 
larks that were singing above him. He hallooed at 


56 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


the plovers. Once he saw a sheep and pretended it 
was an elephant 

“ Where the spicy breezes 

Blow soft o’er Ceylon’s isle.” 

By-and-by he came to a wide burn, and hastened 
to cross it in an approved manner. It was fringed, 
like many South Upland burns, with sparse and ill- 
favored birches. He found one of these which 
leaned over the water, being undermined by the 
winter spates, and crawled out upon its swaying top 
till it became too slender to bear him. He had 
counted upon the bend of the bush depositing him 
near enough the opposite bank to drop easily on the 
ground. But before he was ready to cut loose, the 
treacherous birch gave way entirely and fell souse 
into the water, small human squirrel and all. 
Walter shook himself clear of the twigs that lashed 
his bare legs, and wondered how he was to get out 
of the water, for his little feet could find no bot- 
tom. 

“ Here, nice boy, take hold of my ‘ parolsoi ' and 
I’ll pull you on shore,” said the clearest little voice 
in the world, and looking up in great surprise, 
Walter Anderson saw a little lady perhaps a year 
older than himself, clothed in some white stuff, fine 
like cobweb, she herself apparently all yellow curls 
and great blue eyes. He had now reached, thanks 
to the water-logged birch-bridge, a place where his 
feet touched the bottom, and it occurred to him 
that the opposite side must be Fairyland. He had 
often wanted to go there. 

“ Are you a fairy ?” he asked. 


THE BABES IN THE WOOD. 


57 


“ Why, no !” laughed the curls, gaily, shaking her 
fleece bewilderingly. “ I’m only a little girl, and 
you’re the nicest boy I ever saw.” Then very 
frankly, “ I like nice boys. Come up here and I’ll 
give you a kiss.” 

“ What’s a kiss asked Walter Anderson, whose 
ignorance was great, for kisses were not mentioned 
at Drumquhat. It was not thought menseful to do 
so. 

“ Come up here and I’ll show you !” answered the 
maiden, promptly. 

Clearly an invitation by no means to be refused. 

The children went home together, the little 
maiden in her gauzy summer frock and her yellow 
hair whipping her face as the breeze came over the 
moors. She gave her hand to the “ nicest boy she 
had ever seen,” in dripping jacket and kilt, who 
carried her “ parolsol ” in his hand along with his 
blue bonnet like the courteous knight he was. He 
was a ragged cavalier, but shining from his bath in 
the burn and with his face full of light. 

“ And where do you come from, nice boy said 
the little girl. 

“ I cam’ last frae Miss Fraser’s cottage, but I bide 
wi’ my ‘ gran ’ at Drumquhat,” said Walter, plainly. 
“ And I’ve a dowg — my word, but I’ll gie him a 
lickin’ he’ll mind when I get him,” the memory of 
Yarrow’s iniquity coming over him, “ an’ I hae ten 
cats— an’ their names are Tam, an’ Jim, an’ Bob, an’ 
Ben, an’ Specklie— but Specklie’s an awfu’ thief.” 
This with an accent of pride. 

“ How is that ?” asked the little girl, much inter- 
ested. 


58 


A GALLOWAY HEKD. 


“ Weel,” said Walter, warming to one who took 
such an interest in his playfellows, “it’s this way, 
ye see Specklie is no’ a hoose cat. He bides i’ the 
barn, or whiles i’ the byre — Jean, the big black 
Gallowa’ coo, lets him lie on her back in the cauld 
nights — Specklie’s black, too, ye ken, but he has 
white in his nose and tail. And when ony o’ the 
decent hoose cats come oot into the yaird wi’ a 
moose or onything to eat, Specklie is doon frae the 
riggin’ like a shot, an’ there’s a graun’ fecht, lyin’ on 
their backs an’ fechtin’, an’ spittin’, an’ rowin’ ower 
like a ba’— ” 

“ Horrid creatures !’’ said the little girl. “ My 
cat Flossie never does that !’’ This with her little 
nose high in the air. 

“ Maybe there’s nae Specklie in your yaird !’’ said 
Walter, compassionately. “ But it’s no’ a lang 
fecht, though graun’ while it lasts — for a’ in a 
meenit the hoose cat’ll be rinnin’ a’ it can for the 
hoose wi’ a tail like a heather besom, an’ Specklie 
sittin’ on the riggin’ o’ the barn eatin’ the hoose 
cat’s breakfast !’’ 

“What a very wicked beast! Tell me more. 
Why do you not send him away ?” the little maid 
asked all in a breath. She had a way of speaking 
that Walter had never heard before, something soft 
like the cushie’s calling in the wood, and yet an 
accent ringing through it like clear water plashing 
on rocks. Walter could not analyze, but he highly 
approved. 

“ Go on — tell me more about Specklie !’’ she com- 
manded, briskly. Specklie’s wickedness was fascin- 


THE BABES IN THE WOOD. 59 

ating- above the tame excellence of many “ boose 
cats.’* 

“ Weel, Specklie is an oot-bye cat, ye see, an’ 
he thinks that ‘ hoose cats ’ should bide in the 
hoose,” said Walter, who also believed in a place for 
everything and everything in its place. “ Specklie 
comes oot first to meet me when I come back frae 
the schule !” 

Do j'i?u go to the school ?” asked the girl, with a 
very evident increase of respect. She had not 
thought of a boy in kilts going to school. 

“ Ay, that do I,” said Walter, who had been once 
or twice without very notable effects in the way of 
education. He did not enter into statistics. 
“ Specklie is a good cat ; he was the first to come 
an’ meet me when I cam’ hame ; but noo the hale 
ten come, an’ that’s the only time that Specklie’ll 
no’ touch a hoose cat. Na, he kens better.” 

“ How does Specklie come to meet you ?” asks his 
companion. 

“ I get to the tap o’ the Craigs foment the hoose, 
an’ there I stan’ an’ cry, ‘ Tissj' wtssy, Ussy wissy t till 
every cat aboot the place rins oot to meet me. They 
come frae the byre and they come frae the stables 
and oot o’ the stackyaird, whaur they hae been 
catchin’ rats ; an’ they a’ come doon to the burn, 
lifting their feet high up, for pussies dinna like the 
weet, an’ fnyowtn like mad wi' their tails curled up 
— ten tails ower their ten backs — till they come rin- 
nin’ up the bank to meet me, an’ then they rub 
themsel’s again my legs, and speel up ontil my 
shoother !” 


6o 


A GALLO WAX' HERD. 


“ How Splendid ! T shall come and live with 
you !” broke in his companion, enthusiastically. 

“ Ye’ll hae to speak to ‘ gran’ aboot that,” said 
Walter, who had his own notions as to who was 
head of the house at Drumquhat. There was a 
silence for some moments as the children went 
along the birch-shaded way hand in hand — no 
thought of inequality having apparently come be- 
tween them. 

“ What is your name, nice boy ?” suddenly asked 
the curls, shaking themselves briskly. 

“ They ca’ me Walter Anderson,” said Walter, suc- 
cinctly ; “ but ye can ca’ me Wattie gin ye like.” 

“ Well, Wattie, my name is Marion Durand,” said 
the little girl, politely, feeling that it lay upon her 
also to give her credentials in return ; “ but my 
father always calls me May,” she said. She gave 
no permission to the boy to call her by that name. 
Walter, however, promptly assumed it. 

It’s a bonnie name,” he said, but Mary is mair 
common hereaboot !” 

Then it was that the young lady showed her first 
touch of pride. 

“ But I am not common, little boy !” she said. 
Then, as though relenting, and as an explanation, 
“ I am going to be a lady, and do all kinds of nice 
things to help people when I grow up. My nurse 
says that all these fields belong to me. What are 
you going to be when you grow up ?” she asked, 
raising her long-lashed eyes with an instinctive 
pride to the frank ones of the boy. Walter Ander- 
son was not awed. A landed interest was nothing 
to him to whom the birds spoke, and for whom the 


THE BABES IN THE WOOD. 


6l 


flowers held up their heads, nodding with loving 
messages. 

“ I’m going to be a herd !” said Walter Anderson. 

Thus they spoke together with unabated confi- 
dence, this embryo Galloway herd in ragged kilts 
and the future lady of the manor, till they began 
to draw up the slope of a winding woodland path, 
through which the afternoon sun drove lances of 
mellow light. The plain front of a considerable 
mansion shone through the green haze of the beech 
leaves a few hundred yards ahead of them. Walter 
looked eagerly at it, for he had never seen so large 
a house. It had a couple of turrets with curious 
narrow windows, something like the slits in the 
Drumquhat barn, and a white square tower rose 
from the centre. Walter noticed that there was no’ 
glass in the highest windows, or in the narrow slits 
of the towers. 

Over the door there was a sculptured coat of 
arms, and a stone with the words 

“DO THY DAY’S DARG*' 

cut thereon in antique letters, which, of course, the 
lad could not read. On the other side of the 
heraldic beasts was a large Gothic A surmounted 
with a coronet. 

“ What hoose is that ?” queried Walter, pausing 
in astonishment at such undreamed of adornments. 

“ That,” said the little one, eagerly, pulling the 
lad forward with all her might, lest even at this 
late hour he might escape her, “ that is the big 
House of Deeside.” 


62 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


CHAPTER XI. 

THE HOUSE OF DEESIDE. 

“ Miss Leezie, Miss Leezie, wha’s that ye re 
bringin’ here? Whatna gaberlunzie’s raggit spel- 
dron hae ye fa’en on wi’ noo ? Save us, but the 
lassie’s gane gyte ! Is there no’ eneuch rack an’ 
ruin aboot the Hoose o’ Deeside already, but ye 
maun bring every gypsy’s brat an’ prowlin’ nicht- 
hawk to its auld wa’s. Gang ben this moment to 
your lessons, an’ as for you ” — here the speaker 
turned fiercely to the lad who was standing still 
holding his companion by the hand — “ gae aboot 
yer business, an’ come nae mair here or I’se set the 
dowgs on ye !” 

Walter Anderson was not alarmed, but his eyes 
dilated, for he had never been spoken to in this 
manner before. He dropped his little friend’s hand, 
as unwilling to be a disgrace to her, a hand which 
that young lady instantly regained possession of. 

Then he looked up steadily at the angry face of 
the dark-browed, gray-haired woman who stood 
threateningly with her hands on her hips at the 
corner of the house, and he said : 

“ I come frae Drumquhat, an’ my name is Walter 
Anderson.” 

But the straightforward answer seemed only to 
enrage the woman more, for she came forward 
towards the pair, with her hand uplifted to strike. 


THE HOUSE OF DEESIDE. 63 

and her tongue running free like wildfire across the 
lift. 

“ Is’t come to this that every bare-leggit gangrel 
that gangs thekintra maun come to the auld Hoose 
o’ Deeside threepin’ himsel’ to be an An’erson. Gae 
oot o’ my sicht, ye limb o’ Satan, ye !” 

Walter stepped nearer to his companion, who 
would not let his brown hand go amid all the storm, 
holding it very firm in hers. 

“ Good-bye !” he said, and as she held forward 
her lips, not shamefacedly, but frankly and simpl}’-, 
the boyish brown face and the clear rose and white 
met for the second time. ’Tis not a lesson long a- 
learning. 

A strong hand interposed, and such a stroke as he 
had never yet received, stunned the boy. The 
blood sprang from his mouth and nostrils with the 
force of the blow, almost choking him as he turned 
to go down the woodland path with a vague desire 
to be lost once more on the moor and lie down for- 
ever in a moss hag. 

Some one had called on the dogs, and as he 
rounded the pillars of the inner gate, stumbling like 
a child in a dream, bright lights and sudden darks 
chasing each other before his eyes, two great 
hounds, with the stiff bristles of the wolfdog of the 
Caucasus, sprang towards him. Walter took an 
unsteady step towards them. No animal had ever 
even threatened him. Here at least were friends. 
He laid a hand fearlessly on each as they came 
romping up. At once the dogs fell a-whimpering, 
and fawned on the bleeding boy as he lay down on 
the grass among their feet with his face looking 


64 


A GALLOWAY HEKD. 


skywards. The orchard gates stood open and on 
their posts there was also the scutcheon and the 
motto. An old man, small and spare, with keen, 
cold eyes, came through the apple trees, and looked 
down on the boy, who took off his cap and tried to 
rise, while the hounds whined and licked the blood 
from his face with moist and bleery sympathy. 

Thus was it that Walter came to the ancient 
home steading of the Andersons of Deeside. 


CHAPTER XII. 

THE herd’s new FRIEND. 

The old man who came so quietly through the 
orchard gate stood for a long moment looking at 
the boy as he lay on the ground with the dogs lick- 
ing his face. There was a pale transparency about 
his features and the skin of his hands as of a plant 
that had grown in the dark. Then he put out his 
hand and helped the lad to his feet. 

Come in here,” he said, “ and tell me all about 
it.” 

Instinctively the boy caught the accent of 
sympathy. He knew that this man would deal 
with him in kindness. There is no organ so 
exquisitely discriminating of the inner meaning of 
speech as a child’s ear. Walter held out his hand 
as he would have done to the farmer of Drumquhat, 
himself, had he been called to accompany Saunders 
M’Quhirr round the fields to look at the “nowt.” 


THE herd’s new FRIEND. 


65 


They went along a gravel walk overgrown with 
chickweed and moss so thickly that their feet made 
no sound. The box borders rose a foot and a half 
high and straggled bushily over the path. On 
either side were gooseberry bushes, senile and well- 
nigh barren, their thin, thorny branches trailing on 
the ground and crawling over each other. Beyond 
these again was a great beech hedge rising to the 
sky. Altogether it was a fascinating place to a 
child ; and the boy, who had seen no garden but the 
square pinafore of “ kail-yaird ” attached more for 
appearance than beauty to the front of the farm- 
house of Druiiiquhat, thought that it must be like 
the Garden of Eden. His head rang still from the 
blow he had received, and a strange, light feeling 
had come over him as though he were treading on 
air. The old man walked steadily onward, with a 
peculiarly short step and a halting swing every 
three or four steps. They passed dark Irish yews 
standing up like sentries from a company of the 
Black Brunswickers. They came out upon a 
circular opening where the great beech hedge bent 
into a circle, and the gloomy sentinels stood about 
at intervals, while high overhead the crisp leafage 
of the great beeches alternately clashed and 
muttered. Here there was a great garden seat of 
stone, at the back of which rose a fountain, long 
dry, and a couple of statues, chipped and green- 
patched with blotches of mould. Other two benches 
of wood from which all traces of paint and varnish 
had vanished, were also within the gloomy round of 
this circle. Upon the one which looked along the 
long avenue up which they had come lay a book and 


66 


A GALI-OWAY HERD. 


a pair of gold spectacles. Here the old man sat 
down, and made room for the ragged boy to sit 
beside him ; but Walter, warned by the singing in 
his ears, set himself quietly down on the ground. 

“Well, my boy,” said the old man, putting on his 
spectacles, “ what is your name ?” 

“ Walter Anderson,” said Watty, promptly. 

“Anderson is a common name in these parts,” 
said the old man. “ What Anderson are you ?” 

“ A’ that’s no’ Andersons are Kerrs in oor pair- 
ish,” answered Walter. “ I come frae Drumquhat, 
an’ they call my mither Nelly Anderson.” 

“ Is Drumquhat a farm ?” continued the old man, 
watching the boy with quiet, observing eyes. 

“Ay, that it is,” said Walter, his eye lighting up 
with the pride of possession ; “ there’s no’ a farm 
like it in a’ the country side. An* I hae ten 
cats — ” 

But his present interlocutor was not so anxious to 
hear about his menagerie, and interrupted with the 
further question : 

“ How did you come here ?” 

“ I gaed onto the muir by Miss Katie’s cottage, 
yesterday morning, and couldna find my road back 
again. Then it cam’ on dark.” 

“ But where did you sleep last night asked his 
friend, more and more astonished at the composure 
of this bare-legged boy, who answered him simply 
as if talking to an equal. 

“ Ablow a heather buss !” said Walter, to whom the 
past night was now no great matter. 

“ And what have you had to eat all this time ?’* 
was the gentleman’s next question. 


THE herd’s new FRIEND. 6/ 

“ Juist twa teewheet’s eggs oot o’ the shell, this 
mornin’,” said Walter. 

“ My poor boy, you must come in and get some- 
thing to eat,” said the old man, kindly. “ You 
must be nearly dead with hunger.” 

“ Na,” said Walter, “ that I canna ; there’s a 
woman there that flyted me an’ set the dowgs on 
me. I canna gang intil that hoose !” 

“ Janet is hasty, I know,” said his friend ; “but 
she will not say anything if I take you in.” 

With that he took the little lad by the hand and 
these two went slowly back down the path to the 
gate where the two great hounds were waiting, 
couched one on either side of the gate, as though 
also cut in granite. 

“ Are you the bonny wee lassie’s faither ?” asked 
Walter, turning catechist in his turn. 

“ I have not that honor,” said the old man, gravely. 
“ I’m only her grandfather.” 

“ Will I see her again ?” said Walter, who had 
his notions of good fortune like other people. 
“ Does all this place belong to her ?” he con- 
tinued. 

“ It will one day,” replied his companion. 

As they came round the corner of the house 
there appeared in the doorway his ancient enemy. 
Walter turned to run, but the hand that held his 
was too strong, and the old man said, in his quiet, 
level tones : 

“ Janet, get this poor lad something ; he has been 
out in the moor all night, and has had nothing to 
eat since yesterday morning except some wild birds' 
eggs.” 


68 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


“ Says he sae, Maister Durran' ? Weel, I suppose 
ye ken nae better than believe him.*' 

“ Go, Janet, and do as you are told !" calmly con- 
tinued the old gentleman, whom .she addressed as 
Mr. Durand, and the irate and voluminous person 
departed grumbling to herself. 

So Mr. Durand took Walter into the great hall 
wherein there were many things most fascinating 
to his eye. There was a great black man in armor 
in the corner, many crossed swords and a long row 
of bell-mouthed muskets and flint-locked pistols. 
Walter stared all round him in wonder. The floor 
was of unpainted wood in great squares and crosses 
and diamonds. The light came softly spraying 
down, and it was of faint, mysterious colors. There 
was a great window of colored glass at the western 
end, and the sun was shining through it. It made 
a glory like what Walter imagined God to dwell in. 
He took off his bonnet, as much from reverential 
awe as from politeness. 

They turned down a long passage and their feet 
echoed as on an empty threshing floor when the 
flails are laid away. A door swung back on silent 
hinges, and they were in a room which looked out 
upon the orchard through which they had come. 
Round the room were books and books, and yet 
more books. There was little but books anywhere. 
The floor was covered in all its corners with books, 
there were books on chairs, on desks — every- 
where but on the ceiling. Walter had not thought 
that there were so many books in the whole world. 
One lay open, and there were beautiful pictures of 
strange white women with dull gold glories round 


THE herd’s new FRIEND. 


69 


their heads. Walter glanced at the open leaf, and 
he looked again, holding his hands behind him 
clasped together in the instancy of his desire to 
touch the beautiful page. Then he pointed with a 
nod of his head at a figure arrayed in more earthly 
garments, whose comely figure and red mouth 
made up for the want of the paler glories of the 
aureole which surrounded the others. 

“ That’s my mither !” he said. 

“ Then,” said the old man, stooping down to ex- 
amine the picture on its ivory white sheet of ancient 
vellum, “your mother is a singularly beautiful 
woman.” 

“ ’Deed, that’s what the fowk a’ says — a’ bena’ 
my ^ gran’,” returned Walter. 

Then looking up as though to recall a more in- 
teresting subject, “ D’ye no’ think that the wee las- 
sie will be coming doon sune ?” 

Mr. Durand smiled, and said, “ First you must 
get something to eat.” 

Then Janet, his sometime enemy, came in with 
a face that still had the thunder-cloud on it, and 
she laid a place at the table. 

“ I needna set a knife an’ fork for the like o’ him,” 
she commented, as if to herself. “ Thae gipsies eat 
wi’ their fingers !” 

“ Set the table as if for myself,” said Mr. Durand. 
“The boy is no gipsy, as very well you know, 
Janet.” 

“Weel,” said Janet, “your wull is my pleesure, 
but I canna help my feelin’s. It’s a guid thing the 
spunes are powter.” 

This is how Walter got his first meal, and after he 


70 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


had worked his way through it, faithfully and by no 
means inelegantly, he said his thanksgivings — first 
to the Heavenly Giver, putting his hands reverently 
together as his “ grandfather ” had taught him. 

Then to the kind man who had taken him up 
when he was outcast, he said : 

“ Thank ye, sir, but mind, though I’m nae gipsy, 
as ye said, I’m nocht but a herd laddie.” 

For Walter Anderson did not wish to be kindly 
treated on any false pretences. Mr. Durand, who 
had watched him eat his dinner from behind the 
great book he was reading, looked up and said : 

” Now you will come and get a sleep, and then 
when you are rested we’ll see about getting you 
back home. I’ll go and see if any of the folk at the 
farm know where your Drumquhat is.” 

He partially cleared a space of papers and pam- 
phlets, or rather he made a sort of nest among them 
for Walter, wherein the boy curled himself up con- 
tentedly and went sound asleep. Mr. Durand 
spread a rug over him, first feeling his clothes, 
which were as dry as his own. The June sunshine 
and wind, and their own well- ventilated freedom had 
made short work of the wettings of the morning. 

Then the old man set himself down into his chair 
again, and there was the perfection of silence in the 
empty room. Scented breaths of afternoon air 
blew in through the open window from the sun- 
warmed closes of the orchard. It was such a June 
day as comes but seldom in Scotland. Mr. Durand, 
with the far-away expression in his face, set himself 
to think how he would get news of this boy’s home, 
and how he would be returned thither ; but he had 


THE herd’s new friend. 


no need to trouble himself, for even as the drowse 
of the day became too much for him, and he dozed 
over in his chair, a red farm cart lumbered up to 
the door, craunching in an unaccustomed manner on 
the gravel. To the front door came Janet, still 
nursing her wrath, and with her vocabulary primed 
for this fresh intrusion. She was a tall, bony, black- 
browed person, as heavy of hand as she was ready 
of tongue. 

Then out of the cart there descended a woman of 
that ripe age a little past the middle, sonsy and 
douce, rotund and rosy as a well-favored apple, but 
yet with a glitter in her eye like the sun on a bay- 
onet. Clearly not a woman to be despised. It was 
Walter’s gran,” the Mistress of Drumquhat. In 
her Janet recognized a foeman worthy of her steel. 
Only the great can estimate the great. 

“ When Ben Ij)y put on his cap, 

Cruchan Ben wofs weel o' thati* 

The two women stood looking at each other a 
long moment with something more than mere recog- 
nition in their eyes. 

Greek had met Greek. 


72 


A GALLOWAY IIEKD. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

THE TUG OF WAR. 

There was an ancient war game among the Ro- 
man folks, a game they were not fond of themselves» 
but which they set others to play for them, in which 
a heavily armored and fully armed soldier was 
matched against a lithe gladiator equipped only 
with trident and net. Yet the opponents were not 
unfairly met. The ponderous harness of the one 
cumbered while it protected, and the light defence- 
lessness of the other gave play to the agile limb 
and the ready hand. 

This was the game about to be played at the front 
door of the Mansion House of Deeside. 

The two women stood for a little moment look- 
ing at each other in silence. Janet stood erect on 
her pedestal at the top of the steps, secure in that 
advantage of height which is always a great point 
in an argument, and inclined therefore to despise 
her adversary. But she had news of that before 
long. No one could afford to despise Mary M’Quhirr 
when it came to the strife of tongues. Her style 
was not that of the heavy combatant, but rather 
that of the agile retiarius who lets the sword flash 
and pass till he can take his adversary in his net 
and dispatch him at his leisure. She stood on the 
gravel at the distance of a few scornful paces, like 
a hostile force at parley. Beggars might come 
close up to the steps, but a besieger draws up his 


THE TUG OF WAR. 


73 


forces at a distance respectful at once to himself 
and to the enemy. The mistress of Drumquhat had 
on her best bonnet with the purple roses in it, red 
or white ones being too gaudy. She was thus triply 
armed in that consciousness of seemly attire which 
affords vantage ground to all womankind in dealing 
with one another. With men they know that it does 
not matter so much. 

Mrs. M’Quhirr planted her umbrella, ample in 
girth to match herself, firmly in the grass-grown 
gravel, and waited with the fencer’s courtesy the 
enemy’s first attack, but it did not come. Janet 
half turned on her heel, and seemed on the point of 
marching scornfully off. It was a feint. 

Good day t’ ye. Jennet Adair !’* said Mrs. 
M’Quhirr, with an accent as though there was much 
behind the salutation, which would appear in due 
time. 

“ An’ what micht hae brocht you here, Mary 
M’Quhirr?” returned Janet, bending the sullen 
black brows which met in the middle full upon 
her. 

Ye hae gotten my wee laddie in the hoose !” 
said the enemy, plainly. 

“ I ken naething aboot yer laddie !” said Janet. 
“ Hae ye been renewin’ your youth, Mary. I thocht 
that a’ your laddies were man muckle ?” 

“Never heed my youth. Jennet,” said Mrs. 
M’Quhirr. “ Where’s the boy that ye ill-used when 
he cam’ to your door starvit and wat, efter a nicht 
an’ a day on the wild moors.” She was acting like 
the detective police “upon information received.” 

Janet started. She had not counted on this, 


74 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


though when she saw the red cart drive up she had 
expected some demand of the kind, “ It’s that 
hempie Mirren!” she said to herself. “Wait till 
she comes hame !” 

But to the present enemy she said : 

“ I ken nocht aboot ony decent fowk’s laddie. 
D’ye think, Mary M’Quhirr, that I’m responsible for 
every raggit gipsy loon that gangs trailin’ the 
country, seein’ what he can lift. Na, we harbor 
nae sic like aboot Deeside, whatever ye may do at 
Drumquhat ; but like aye draws to like !” 

“ Wha was’t that brocht him here ?” put in the 
mistress quietly, ignoring the side issues. 

“ He cam^ here wi’ a bit wean that kenned nae 
better. She brocht hame a verra ask* yesterday ! 
But gin the laddie is sae respectable, an’ has a richt 
to ca’ himsel’ by the name o’ Andersons, maybe 
ye’ll tell me wha’s the faither o’ him !” 

This was a shrewd stroke, and rather carried the 
war into the enemy’s country. But the enemy 
refused to be turned from the main question. 

“ A’ in guid time,” said she, “ ye’ll ken that an’ a 
heap else, Jennet. In the meantime, I demand o’ 
ye — whaur’s the boy?” 

“ Did I no’ tell ye that I ken nocht about him,” 
reiterated Janet, warmly. 

“ Dinna threep lees. Jennet Adair !” said Mary, 
with great directness. 

This was Janet’s opening for her strong suite. 
Glad of any chance to let loose the dogs of war, she 
set her arms still further akimbo, in the style that 


* A newt accounted poisonous in Galloway. 


THE TUG OF WAR. ^5 

is called in Scotland “ brazen,” and undid the strings 
of her vocabulary. 

“ An’ have I come to my time o’ life to be ca’d a 
leer by the like o’ you, Mary M’Whurr — me that 
has been better off than you in a’ gear an’ plenishin’, 
in doon-settin’ an’ on-pittin,’ a’ the days o’ me— me 
that has been hoosekeeper in the Big Hoose o’ 
Deeside for five year, an’ afore that to the minister 
in his ain manse. D’ye think that I havena heard 
o’ yer ongaun ; ay, an’ o’ the Canaanitish woman ye 
keep for the men to rin efter ower aboot ye, that 
naebody kens onything aboot. This’ll be her brat, 
I’m thinkin’, that ye come here makin’ sic a cry 
aboot. Gang hame, Mary M’Whurr, an’ tak’ yer 
nameless waistrel frae the respectable hoose o’ 
Deeside an’ the company o’ decent folk !” 

This was a well-sustained front attack, and the 
enemy seemed victorious at all points, but Mary 
M’Quhirr was unmoved. Had Saunders been there 
he would have smiled at Janet’s confidence. It 
took, he knew, quite another policy to circumvent 
his Mary. 

“ Since when did ye frequent the society o’ decent 
fowk, Jennet ?” she asked. 

“ Keep yer ill tongue for yer ain guidman, Mary !” 
said Janet, now fairly aroused. Do I no’ ken that 
he canna sae muckle as hand up his heid or daur to 
say a word for himsel’. It’s weel kenned that the 
puir craitur daurna speak abune his breath !” 

“ I hae heard o’ a man that was driven to his 
grave wi’ the deevin’ o’ a woman’s tongue ; but it 
rins in my heid that the name o’ him wasna 


76 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


M’Whiirr, but maybe Adair. Ye’ll pit me riclit gin 
I’m wrang, Jennet !” 

“ I’ll pit ye richt, ye insolent wumman ; I’ll hae ye 
proclaimed through a’ the countryside as the 
harborer of thieves an’ waur nor thieves. I’ll 
mak’ ye kenned for what ye are through the sax 
pairishes, ye leein’, ill-tongued randy, that ye are, 
cornin’ and pushin’ yersel forrit, you an’ your gipsy 
followin’, on the hooses o’ them that has characters 
to keep up — ” 

“ I dinna think that ye wull, Jen !” said Mrs. 
M’Quhirr, serenely. 

An’ wha wull prevent me, I wad like to ken ? 
I hae juist ta’en eneuch frae you an’ yours, settin’ 
my ain man’s brither against me, an’ cornin’ here 
wi’ yer lees an’ yer impidence. I’ll mak’ Gallawa’ 
ower het to hand ye ; I’ll gaur ye birsle, an’ when 
ae side’s dune, faith ! I’ll turn ye.” 

“ Na,” said the mistress of Drumquhat, “ ye’ll no’ 
do that !” 

“An’ what for no?” said Janet, tossing her head 
in the air. 

“Juist because my man’s the Clerk o’ the Ses- 
sions !” said Mary M’Quhirr. 

“ I waudna care gin he waur the minister,” said 
Janet. 

“ Verra likely no’; but Jennet, when ye begin to 
talk aboot characters, maybe ye’ll mind that Saun- 
ders MacWhurr keeps the Session Records !” 

The anger faded suddenly out of Janet’s face. It 
whitened and seemed to fall inward. The belliger- 
ent crook of her elbows straightened. The net had 
closed upon her, and she knew that she was at her 


THE TUG- OF WAR. 


77 


adversary’s mercy. The Session Records are in 
Scotland the nearest thing to the great Books of the 
Recording Angel. 

“ They lie,” added the victor, for the sake of 
driving the truth home, in oor ain bedroom press at 
Drumquhat.” 

Janet capitulated. 

“ Come this way !” she said, without another 
word. 

Mrs. M’Quhirr put her umbrella over her shoulder, 
as the regimental colors are held aloft after victory, 
and followed the vanquished along the echoing pas- 
sages of the house of Deeside. 

Janet opened the softly turning, padded door of 
the library, and motioned Mrs. M’Quhirr to go in. 
She entered and saw a beautiful sight. On the 
high oaken seat under the great window sat a beau- 
tiful old man, asleep over his book, his hair lifting 
slightly with the vagrant breeze from the orchard. 
Opposite on the sofa, pillowed among papers, was 
the golden head of her boy, the truant of the moors, 
and beside him there was another head, its golden 
fleece of curls lying upon his cheek. It was little 
Marion Durand who had fallen asleep upon her 
knees by the side of the nicest boy she had ever 
seen. Upon the faces of both there was the rosy 
flush that comes in sleep to healthy infancy. It 
was the fairest picture that Mary M’Quhirr had ever 
looked upon, but somehow she was not so happy as 
she ought to have been. Why, she could not tell ; 
but she had the grace to be ashamed of the jealous 
feeling. 


78 


A GALLOWAY HERD 


CHAPTER XIV. 

A STRANGER COMES TO DRUMQUHAT. 

Drumquhat was expecting a visitor. There were 
white, mysterious whirlies on the stone floor of the 
kitchen, crosses and crooks alternately from the 
settle bed in the corner to the vast ingle nook where 
in the great pot boiled and bubbled the dinner mash 
for Saunders’ clamorous pigs in their white-washed 
sty at the foot of the hill loaning. Now Mary 
M’Quhirr’s house was always “ snod.” A visitor 
might come at anytime and she be nowise shamed ; 
but to-day there was such a floor that dinner might 
well have been served upon it. The irons and rein- 
rings on the wall flashed as though made of the 
precious metals. It was Nelly Anderson who had 
polished them, much to the surprise and gratification 
of the Mistress of Drumquhat. At three in the 
afternoon the two were sitting in the room, Mrs. 
M’Quhirr with her “ bettermous ” frock on and 
Nelly dressed with her unvarying good taste. Each 
had a piece of work in her hands, the mistress a pair 
of “ rig-and-fur ” stockings for the guidman, and the 
younger woman a bit of plain white seam for the 
boy. Walter was by distinction “ The Boy ” at 
Drumquhat, the stalwart sons of the house being 
collectively ‘‘The Boys.” 

The terror of his disappearance and the anxiety 
during the terrible time before the red cart brought 


A STRANGER COMES TO DRUMQUHAT. 


79 


him back had altered his mother more than all the 
previous five years. The past was struggling back, 
and the legacy that it brought was not the happiest ; 
but there was an awakening glamor of love in her 
eyes as she looked at her boy, and Walter, too, clave 
to her in quite a new way. He loved his “ gran ” 
as much as ever, but it was easy to see that without 
loving her less, his mother was far more^inr-his 
thoughts than hitherto. But with the renaissance 
of the soul came the partial return of memory, and 
she seemed to herself to walk ever on the verge of 
some great precipice. She awoke sometimes in the 
night, clasping Walter close to her bosom, and cry- 
ing out in an agony of fear. 

It was old Mr. Durand, Walter’s friend from the 
Big House of Deeside, whom the Drumquhat folk 
were expecting. He had promised to come when 
Mrs. M’Quhirr drove off that day with her boy in 
the cart — a sedate triumph in her eye, after her 
great victory over Janet Adair. Since then he had 
written again and again concerning his little friend, 
and the beech-walled walk past the sundial was 
lovelier than before. The lad had taken his heart, 
and if he had been inclined to forget, Marion would 
have reminded him at least a hundred times in a 
day. Indeed, but for her and her chatter, the old 
house had been a dull place. She flashed here and 
there like a wind-borne fay, her hair glancing in 
the sun — never five minutes in one place. At 
Drumquhat Walter had been out for hours watching 
the hill road which led from Deeside, but had fallen 
in with no one but Archibald Grierson, whose 
studies still took him often to the moorland, never 


8o 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


again to repeat the experiences of that June 
gloaming. 

Now, Walter and Archibald were firm friends, 
and they amused themselves among the peat hags 
and gathered bunches of white heather as they 
came homeward, Archie’s heart beginning to beat 
with the expectation of seeing his sweetheart, and 
Walter’s rejoicing to bring his mother such an arm- 
ful of good-luck. As they turned to look back over 
the moor they saw a thin, dark man coming towards 
them along the undulating line of the march dyke. 
He had the look of a commercial man in a good 
way. When he came up with them he asked if he 
were on the right way for the farm of Drumquhat. 
There was an accent in his voice which the student 
disapproved of, also a way of seeming able to look 
through a man and see something unpleasant on 
the far side. 

“ Does one Ellen Anderson live there ?” he asked. 

“ Mrs. Anderson lives there,” said Archibald 
Grierson, with some quiet emphasis. 

“ That’s my mither !” said Wattie. 

The stranger looked at him with a sharp side- 
long glance, as though there were a new interest 
for him in the lad, but he made no further remark. 
When they came through the “ liggate ” which led 
into the farm-town, Saunders met them, in rough 
homespun just as he came from the hay-field. He 
looked inquiringly at the new-comer, who remained 
silent, as though unaccustomed to give information 
regarding himself. Archie Grierson explained, 
somewhat unwillingly, that this gentleman had 


A STRANGER COMES TO DRUMQUriAT. 


8l 


come to see Mrs. Anderson, pausing to give him an 
opportunity of explaining further. 

“We are pleased to see you,” said Saunders 
M’Quhirr, with his usual courtesy. The man nod- 
ded curtly, but with no sign of any reciprocal 
warmth of feeling. 

“ Will ye come ben said the master. 

They went through the blue kitchen door, past 
the cool water-cans in which the sunshine was 
flickering, into the “ room,” where sat the mistress 
and Walter’s mother, expecting quite another 
visitor. Mrs. M’Quhirr rose hospitably to give her 
visitors seats. It crossed her mind that the new- 
comer was some one whom Mr. Durand had sent. 
But the visitor, though not unkindly in his private 
relations, was in no mood for courtesies. 

He looked straight at the younger woman, who 
sat unconcernedly over her work, her beautiful 
hands moving to and fro with a new-born energy 
and verve. 

“ Your name is Ellen Anderson, is it not ?” he 
said, in a high, distinct tone. 

She looked up with her first calm glance at him, 
and replied simply : 

“ That is my name !” 

“ Then,” said the man, “ I arrest you in the 
Queen’s name for the murder of Herbert Peyton ?” 

If the Trump of Judgment had suddenly pealed 
in that fair, well-garnished room in the farm-house 
of Driimquhat it would have caused infinitely less 
consternation. The mistress clutched the mantle- 
piece to keep herself from falling, knocking down a 
pink china dog, and stooping dazedly to pick up the 


82 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


pieces. She was for once quite bereft of words. 
Saunders stood a moment and then strode forward 
to take the man by the neck. Archie Grierson 
moved instinctively towards the woman who had 
become his life, whose nimble fingers had not ceased 
even with the startling declaration. Walter ran to 
his mother and clung round her neck, ignorant of 
what had happened, but conscious that some sore 
evil had befallen, and that this man whom he had 
brought to the farm was the means of it. 

Nelly Anderson herself was the only perfectly 
calm person in the room. She finished her seam, 
calmly folded it away, and rose to her full height, 
lifting her boy in her arms with a strong, uncon- 
scious movement. 

‘‘ It is quite true, I had forgotten ; I will go with 
you !” she said. 

It was the man who had watched the cab drive 
away from the hospital door nearly six years be- 
fore. The silent foot of Justice had followed her 
far. 


CHAPTER XV. 

ANOTHER VISITOR. 

But first let me see your authority !” said a new 
voice from the doorway to the London officer. It 
was the clear, quiet voice of Felix Durand. He 
had entered without any one being there to receive 
him. With his cool, keen eyes, and the wonderful 


A STRANGER COMES TO DRUMQUHAT. 


83 


delicacy and transparency of his complexion, he 
looked like the denizen of some other world come 
among the weather-tanned Galloway skins. The 
officer, recognizing the tone of authority and expe- 
rience in affairs, at once turned and showed his 
crown-topped badge, and drew from his pocket a 
sheet of foolscap which he presented to his chal- 
lenger. He was not exultant, but he felt that nat- 
ural desire to bring a very long quest to an end, 
and he somewhat resented this interference, after 
the confession which had just been made. The old 
man looked the document carefully over. 

“ You word your warrants better in your country 
than in mine. We always have an alternative 
charge. You can, I see, only arrest for murder ?’' 

“ That is so !” said the man, not seeing his inter- 
locutor’s drift. 

“ Then, let me tell you, your warrant is not worth 
the paper it is written on.” 

That’s nonsense,” said the officer, “ after what 
we have heard.” 

The old man quietly took a letter from his 
pocket. 

“ Herbert Peyton is not dead !” he said. “This 
is a letter from him that I had this morning.” 

The London detective took it in his hand, ex- 
amined it scrupulously, and returned it with a 
smile. 

“ You know very well,” he said, “ that this is no 
evidence. Be good enough to stand out of my way, 
and you, ma’am, bring the young woman what she 
needs for her journey.” 

Felix Durand drew himself up. 


84 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


“ Officer,” he said, “ you are a good man doing 
your duty, but I have been used to taking life and 
death responsibilities for forty years in greater 
affairs than this. You cannot leave this house till 
you get further instructions from Scotland Yard.” 

As he said this, with inconceivable rapidity he 
laid a revolver which he had taken out of the detec- 
tive’s side pocket on the drawers’ head behind, and 
motioned Saunders to take it away. Saunders took 
it like a well-drilled soldier. 

The officer rushed towards the door, but the broad 
shoulders of Saunders and his eldest son completely 
filled up the entrance. He turned quickly in the 
direction of the small window, but Archie Grierson 
sat on the ledge. 

“Bear witness, all of you, I declare myself 
deforced in the discharge of my duty,” he said. 

“ You will hear what is your duty before you 
leave this room. We will do nothing illegal. Mrs. 
Anderson will remain here with you. Mrs. 
M’Quhirr will bring you what refreshments are 
necessary.” 

By this time another stalwart son of the house 
and the herd showed themselves outside the window, 
and Mr. Durand beckoned Archibald Grierson from 
his post. 

“ Ride with this telegram,” he said, “ to the office 
in Cairn Edward, and don’t come back till you have 
a telegram from Scotland Yard. I need not tell you 
to ride your best.” 

He sat down and with the ready pen of the man 
of affairs, who has lived his life in the midst of the 
gravest issues, he wrote without pause ; 


AKCHiK Grierson's second ride. 


85 


“ Dubois, 13 Tavistock St., Leicester Square. 
Report in name Dubois at Scotland Yard^ authenticating 
yourself from the French Embassy, Imperative. Felix I' 


CHAPTER XVI. 

ARCHIE Grierson’s second ride. 

The company in the little picture-hung, shell- 
garnished parlor of Drumquhat was for some time 
a silent one. The London stranger sat with his 
arms folded and gazed abstractedly at the toe of his 
right foot, which gently waved to and fro. Saun- 
ders at first tried to enliven him by discourse of the 
crops and the weather, topics in which Galloway 
expects its visitors to be interested, but the officer 
had only glowered silently at him as one who sees 
his cherished objects elude his grasp. Now and 
then he turned his eyes furtively to Nelly Ander- 
son, evidently trying to re-construct a well-known 
story in the light of a new personality. Felix Dur- 
and sat now by the window and looked over the 
little pinafore of kitchen garden, with the poppies, 
bachelors’ buttons, and gardeners’ garters standing 
up here and there among the cabbages, which was 
the pride of the mistress of Drumquhat. Beyond 
the garden were the corn slopes, whitening in the 
brisk air of a splendid autumn. Then, over the 
cornfields rose the sullen eyebrows of the moors 
and the rolling upland which the sun was now turn- 


86 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


ing into leagues of purple till it reached, in a long, 
straight horizon line, the rippled margin of the 
clouds of evening. 

. “ Do you remember,” said the old man, speaking 
as though in a kind of dream, “ that night at Saint 
Germain, when you and I walked along the great 
terrace by the pavilion of Francois Quatre ? Ah, 
how many hopes have been blasted since then of 
yours and mine, Nelly ? You were a stripling girl 
of fifteen, just bursting out of your plain frocks into 
womanhood. We thought then that in a year we 
could give France her own, and pull down the 
throne of the man of December ! But the time is 
not yet. It comes, though — it is near !” 

The old man’s eyes glistened. There was a shin- 
ing radiance in them, and as he spoke the great, 
quiet eyes of Nelly Anderson caught fire. There 
was always a slumberous spark like the imprisoned 
fire-flame in the opal in the solemn depths of their 
violet. The London officer raised his head and 
listened with unconcealed interest. Even Mrs. 
M’Quhirr, whom the accumulated excitement had 
crushed, till demands were made upon her hospital- 
ities, brisked up a little, and once more placed the 
tray of refreshments, and the plates of scones and 
the basket of shortbread within reach of her unwill- 
ing guest. As he listened, his hand kept stealing 
out unconsciously, and while his eyes never left the 
face of Felix Durand, his inner man was undeniably 
being duly fortified. The mistress looked pleased, 
and to this day holds a secret, pious opinion that the 
immediate event was as much due to her scones and 
greybeard ” as to Mr, Durand’s messages, 


AHCiiiK Grierson’s second ride. 


8/ 


“ We did not pull the gray Emperor down, Nelly, 
though we gave him a shake,” said Mr. Durand. 
“ But many things have happened since then. If 
you only wait long enough, you will see a man in 
his true colors. Nothing is so sure as the retribu- 
tion of pretence.” 

“ Do you remember, Felix,” said the young 
woman, in quite another voice to any that she had 
ever used since she came to Drumquhat, something 
clearer and sharper. “ No, you can’t have forgotten 
the walks through the forest between St. Germain 
and Poissy, and the chairs piled in the great open 
spaces under the trees. You were good to me, 
your words were true words, and everything you 
told me has come to pass.” 

“ It is not as bad as it might have been, Mrk, 
Had I had the doing of it, Herbert Peyton had not 
escaped so easily. Do not trouble your mind, my 
girl, you did nothing to him that he was not the 
better of.” 

“ But where is he now, and what is he doing ?” 
queried Nelly Anderson, a strong shudder of dis- 
gust shaking her, and even on that mild evening 
causing her to draw her shawl closer about her 
shoulders. 

“ Why, what could he be at but the old treacher- 
ous occupation — running with the hares and hunt- 
ing with the hounds !” 

Felix Durand had been noticing the keen curios- 
ity of the London officer, who, mellowing under the 
enlarging influences of Mrs. M’Quhirr’s tray, was in- 
clined to continue the conversation on quite other 
terms, 


88 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


But at this moment a clatter of hoofs was heard 
in the yard, and in a few moments Archie Grierson 
pushed the parlor door open and entered, the white 
dust of the highway on his very eyebrows. He 
handed a dispatch to the officer, who opened it with 
a single dexterous movement, flinging at the same 
time the envelope on the floor, and immediately 
turned to Nelly Anderson. 

“ I have to express my sincere regret for the 
trouble and annoyance that has been caused you,” 
he said, and to bid you good-evening,” and he 
turned to go. 

But Saunders stood in the doorway. This was 
not his idea of a leave-taking. 

“ Na, na,” he said ; “ ye’ll bide onyway till the 
mistress mak’s ye a cup o’ tea, an’ Aleck will tak’ ye 
ower to Cairn Edward in the machine.” 

Nelly Anderson threw her arms round Felix 
Durand’s neck and kissed him. 

“ Pere Felix,” she said, very softly, “ I will 
always do what you tell me now.” 

“ Aye, my lass,” said he, gently, “ it would have 
been better for you if you had begun sooner.” 

This was his only word of reproach. 

Then, turning about to leave the room, she 
caught sight of Archie standing ruddily blushing 
through his dust, and looking very wistfully at her. 
With a sudden impulse, which was very charming 
to see, she kissed him also. Then she walked 
swiftly to her own room, and, falling on her knees, 
she prayed the first prayer that she had prayed for 
years, loosening all her heart before the Lord, 


A SABBATH DAY AT DRUMQUHAT. 


89 


CHAPTER XVII. 

A SABBATH DAY AT DRUMQUHAT. 

Walter Anderson often says in these latter days 
that his life owed much of its bent to his first days 
of the week at Drumquhat. 

The Sabbath mornings broke over the farm like a 
benediction. It was a time of great stillness and 
exceeding peace. It was generally believed in the 
parish that Mrs. M’Quhirr had trained her cocks to 
crow in a fittingly subdued way on that day. The 
Sabbath light seemed brighter, and the neces- 
sary duties were early gone about in order that 
perfect quiet might surround the farm during the 
hours of the day. As Walter is of opinion that 
his Sabbaths were so important, it may be well to 
describe one of them accurately. It will then be 
obvious that his memory has been playing him 
tricks, and that he has remembered only those 
parts which were to his credit — a common eccen- 
tricity of all memories. 

It is a thousand pities if in this chronicle Walter 
has been represented as a good boy. He was seldom 
so-called by the authorities about Drumquhat. 
There he was usually referred to as “ that loon,” 
“the hyule,"' “ Wattie, ye mischeevious boy.” He 
was a stirring lad and his restlessness frequently 
brought him into trouble. He remembers his 
“ grannie’s ” Bible lessons on the green turn of the 
road, and he is of opinion now that they did him a 


90 


GALLOWAY HEKD. 


great deal of good. It is not for an outside historian 
to contradict him, but it is certain that his “ gran ” 
had to exercise a good deal of patience to induce 
him to give due attention, and a modicum of suasion 
that could not be called moral to make him learn 
his verses and his Psalm. Indeed, to bribe the boy 
with a book was the only way of inspiring in him 
the love of Scriptural learning. There was a book 
packman who came from Balmathrapple once a 
month, and by the promise of a new missionary 
map of the world, with the Protestants in red, float- 
ing like cream on the top, and the pagans sunk in 
black at the bottom, Wattie could be induced to 
learn nearly anything. Walter was, however, of 
the opinion that the map was a most imperfect pro- 
duction. He thought that the portion of the world 
occupied by the Reformed Presbyterians ought to 
have been much more prominently charted. This 
omission he blamed on Ned Kenna, the bookman, 
who was a Free. Walter looked for the time when 
all the world, from great blank Australia to the 
upper Icy Pole, should become Cameronian. He 
anticipated a time when the black savages would 
have to quit eating one another, and learn the 
Shorter Catechism. He chuckled when he thought 
of them attacking effectual calling. He knew his 
duty to his fellows very well, and he did it to the 
best of his ability. It was when he met a Free 
Kirk boy, to throw a stone at him, or alternatively, if 
the boy were a girl, to put out his tongue at her. 
This he did, not from any special sense of superior- 
ity, but for the good of their souls. 

When Walter awoke the sun had long been up 


A SABBATH DAY AT DRUMQUIIAT. 9 1 

and all sounds of labor, usually so loud, were 
hushed about the farm. There was a breathless 
silence, and the boy knew even in his sleep that it 
was Sabbath morning. He arose, and unassisted 
arrayed himself for the day. Then he stole forth, 
hoping that he would get his porridge before the 
Buik ” came on. Through the little end window 
he could see his grandfather ” moving up and 
down, leaning on his staff — his tall, stooped figure 
very clear against the background of beeches. He 
looked often upward in self-communion, and some- 
times groaned aloud in the instancy of his unspoken 
prayer. His great brow rose like the wall of a 
fortress, and a stray white lock on it stirred in the 
crisp air. Wattie was about to omit his prayers in 
his eagerness for his porridge, but the sight of his 
grandfather induced him to change his mind. He 
knelt reverently down, and was so found when his 
mother came in. She stood for a moment on the 
threshold, and silently beckoned the good mistress 
of the house forward to share in the touching sight. 
But neither of the women knew how near the boy’s 
prayers were to being omitted entirely that morn- 
ing, and what is more, they would not have believed 
it had they been informed of it by the angel 
Gabriel. For this is the manner of women ; this is 
the way that mothers are made, and may the God 
of faith bless them for it ! The man has, indeed, 
been driven out of Paradise, but the woman, for 
whose expulsion we have no direct Scriptural 
authority, certainly carries with her materials for 
constructing a Paradise out of her own generous 
faith and belief in us poor creatures. Often we men 


92 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


do oiir poor best, not because we are anxious to do 
the good for its own sake, but because we know that 
some woman expects it of us. The world were a 
still sorrier world but for this. 

The dwelling-house of Drumquhat was a low, one- 
storied house of a common enough pattern. It 
stood at one angle of the white fortalice of build- 
ings which surrounded the “ yard.” Over the 
kitchen and “ ben the hoose,” there was a“laft,” 
where the “ boys ” slept. The roof of this upper 
floor was unceiled, and through the crevices sifted 
upon the sleepers the winter snows. Yet were 
there no finer lads, no more sturdy and well set-up 
men, than the sons of the farmhouse of Drumquhat. 
Many a morning ere Aleck rose from his bed in the 
black dark to look to the sheep, before lighting his 
candle, he brushed off from the coverlet a full arih- 
sweep of powdery snow. It was a sign of Walter’s 
emancipation from boyhood when he insisted on 
leaving his mother’s cosy little wall chamber and 
climbing up the ladder with the “ boys ” to their 
loft under the eaves. But it went with a sudden 
pang to his mother’s heart to think that nevermore 
should she go to sleep with her boy clasped in her 
arms. Such times will come to mothers, and they 
must abide them in silence. Another such occasion 
is when she realizes that another woman is before 
her in hef son’s heart. She feels the Eden curse 
more at such times than even in the bitterness of 
bringing her children into the world. The whole 
family of Saunders M’Quhirr was collected every 
Sabbath morning at the “ Buik.” It was a solemn 
time. No one was absent, or could be absent for 


A SABBATH DAY AT DKUMQUHAT. 93 

any purpose whatever. The great Bible, rough- 
coated in the hairy hide of a calf, was brought down 
from the press and laid at the table end. Saunders 
sat down before it and bowed his head. There was 
a silence that could be felt. At this time every 
Sabbath morning Walter resolved to be a good boy 
for the whole week. The Psalm was reverently 
given out, two lines at a time — 

“ They in the Lord that firmly trus 
Shall be like Zion hill—” 

and sung to the high, quavering strains of Coleshill 
garnished with endless quavers and grace-notes. 
The chapter was now read with a simple trust and 
manfulness like that of an ancient patriarch. At 
this portion of the service the most terrible thing 
that ever happened at Drumquhat took place. 
Walter had just gone to school during the past year, 
and had been placed in the “ sixpenny,” but had 
promptly “ trapped ” his way to the head of the 
class, and so into the more noble “ tenpenny,” which 
he entered before he was six. The operation of 
“ trapping ” was simply performed. When a mis- 
take was made in pronunciation, repetition or spell- 
ing, any pupil further down the class held out his 
hand, snapping the finger and thumb like a pop-gun 
Nordenfeldt. The master’s pointer skimmed rapidly 
down the line, and if no one in higher position 
answered, the “ trapper,” providing that his emen- 
dation was accepted, was instantly promoted to the 
place of the “ trapped.” The master’s “ taws ” were 
a wholesome deterrent of too persistent or mis- 
taken trapping, and in addition the trapped boys 


94 


A GALLO WAX' HERD. 


sometimes rectified matters at the back of the 
school at the play hour, when fists became a high 
court of appeal. Walter had many fights — “ Can ye 
fecht ?” being the recognized greeting of a new- 
comer at Whinnyliggate school. When this was 
asked of Walter, he replied, modestly, that he did 
not know, whereupon his enemy without provocation 
incontinently smote him on the nose. Him our boy 
from the heather promptly charged, literally with 
tooth and nail, overbore to the dust, and when he 
held him there, proceeded summarily to disable him 
for further conflict as he had often seen Royal do 
when that mild dog went forth to war. Walter’s 
motto was also “ Defence, not Defiance,” and he 
could not at all understand why he was dragged off 
his assailant by the assembled school, and soundly 
cuffed for a young savage who fought like the 
beasts. Wattie knew that this objection was un- 
reasonable, for whom else had he seen fight besides 
the beasts. In due time he learned to fight legit- 
imately enough, and took his share of the honors of 
war ; but the reputation of a reserve of savagery 
did him no harm, and induced many an elder boy 
who had been trapped to forego the pleasure of 
“ warming him after the schule comes out,” which 
was the recognized challenge of Whinnyliggate 
chivalry. 

But this morning at the Buik, when the solemnity 
of the vreek had culminated, and the portion was 
being read, Walter detected a quaint antiquity in 
the pronunciation of a Bible name. His hand shot 
out, cracking like a pistol, and while the family 
waited for the heavens to fall, Walter boldly 


A SABBATH DAT AT DRUMQUHAT. 95 

“ trapped the priest of the household at his own 
family altar ! 

Saunders M’Quhirr stopped, glanced one sharp, 
severe glance at the boy’s eager face. But even as 
he looked his face mellowed into what his son Aleck 
to this day thinks may have been the ghost of a 
smile. But this he mentions to no one, for after all 
Saunders is his father. 

The Book was closed. “ Let us pray,” he said. 

The prayer was not one to be forgotten. There 
was a yearning refrain in it, the cry for more worthi- 
ness in those whom God had so highly favored. 
Simple, reverent, direct — it was a model prayer. 
Saunders was allowed to be highly gifted in inter- 
cession. But he was also considered to have some 
strange notions for a God-fearing man. 

For instance, he would not permit any of his 
children to be tanght by heart any prayer besides 
the Lord's Prayer. After repeating that, they were 
encouraged to ask from God whatever they wanted, 
and were never reproved, however strange or incon- 
gruous their supplications might be. Saunders sim- 
ply told them that if what they asked was not for 
their good they would not get it — a fact which, he 
said, “ they had as lieve learn sune as syne.” 

This excellent but unorthodox theory of prayer 
was certainly productive of curious results. Aleck is 
recorded in the family archives to have interjected 
the following petition into his devotions. While 
saying his own prayers he had been keeping a keen 
fraternal eye upon sundry delinquencies of his 
younger brother. These having become too out- 
rageou.s, Aleck continued without break in his sup- 


96 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


plications — “ And now, Lord, will you please excuse 
me till I gang an’ kick that loon Rab, for he’ll no 
behave himsel’ !” So the spiritual exercises were 
interrupted, and in Aleck’s belief the universe waited 
till discipline allowed of the petitionary thread to 
be taken up. 

The “ Buik ” being over, the red cart rattled to 
the door to convey such of the church-goers as 
were not able to walk all the weary miles to the 
Cameronian kirk in Cairn Edward. The stalwart, 
long-legged sons had cut across a shorter way by 
the Big Hoose and the Deeside kirk. Both the 
cart and the walkers passed on the way a good 
many churches, both Established and Free, but 
they never so much as looked the road they were 
on. This hardly applied to Aleck, whose sweet- 
heart (for the time being) attended the Free kirk 
at Whinnyliggate. He knew within his own heart 
that he would have liked to turn in there, and the 
consciousness of his iniquity gave him an acute 
sense of the fallen nature of man, at least till he 
got out of sight of the spireless rigging of the kirk, 
and out of hearing of the jow of its bell. Then his 
spirits rather rose to think that he had resisted 
temptation. Also, he dared not for his life have 
done anything else, for his father’s discipline, 
though kindly, was strict and patriarchal. And, 
moreover, there was a lass, a daughter of the Ark- 
land grieve, whose curls he rather liked to see in 
the seat before him. He had known her when he 
went to the neighboring farm to harvest, for in 
that lowland district the corn was all cut and led 
before it was time to begin on the scanty upland 


A SABBATH DAY AT DRUMQUHAT. 


97 


crop which was gathered into the barns of Driim- 
quhat. Luckily, she sat in a line with the minister, 
and when she was there two sermons were not too 
long. 

The clean red farm cart rattled into the town of 
Cairn Edward at five minutes past eleven. The 
burghers looked up and said “ Hoo is the clock ?" 
Some of them went so far as to correct any discrep- 
ancy in their timekeepers, for all the world knew 
that the Drumquhat cart was not a moment too 
soon or too late as long as Saunders had the driv- 
ing of it. Times had not been good of late, and for 
some years, indeed, ever since the imposition of the 
tax on light-wheeled vehicles, the tax-cart ” had 
slumbered wheelless in the back of the peat-shed, 
and the Drumquhat folk had driven a well-cleaned, 
heavy wheeled cart both to kirk and market. But 
they were respected in spite of their want of that 
admirable certificate of character : “ He is a re- 
spectable man. He keeps a gig." One good man 
in Whinnyliggate says to this day that he had a 
good upbringing. He was brought up by his 
parents to fear God and respect the Drumquhat 
folks ! 

Walter generally went to church now, ever since 
his “ gran ” had tired of conveying him to the back 
field overlooking the valley of the Black Water of 
Dee. He was fond of going there to see the tents 
of the invading army of navvies who were carrying 
the granite rock-cuttings and heavy embankments 
of the Portpatrick Railway through the wilds of the 
Galloway moors. But Mary M‘Quhirr struck work 


98 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


one day when the infant/’ being hungry for a 
piece, said calmly : 

“ D’ye no’ think that we can gang hame ? My 
mither will be awa’ to the kirk by noo !” 

On the long journey to church Walter had nom- 
inally accompanied the cart, and occasionally he had 
seated himself on the clean straw which filled its 
bottom ; but most of the time this was far too 
fatiguing an occupation for him. On the plea of 
walking up the hills, he ranged about on either side 
of the highway, scenting the ground like a young 
collie. He even gathered flowers when his “ grand- 
father” was not looking, and his mother or his 

gran,” who were not so sound in the faith, aided 
and abetted him by concealing them when Saunders 
looked around. The master sat, of course, on the 
front of the cart and drove, but occasionally he cast 
a wary eye round, and if he saw that they were 
approaching any houses, he would stop the cart and 
make Walter get in. On these occasions he would 
fail to observe it even if Walter’s hands contained a 
posy of wild flowers as big as his head. His blind- 
ness was remarkable in a man whose eyesight was 
so good. The women folk in the cart generally put 
the proceeds of these forays under the straw or else 
dropped them quietly overboard before entering 
Cairn Edward. 

The old Cameronian kirk sits on a hill, and is 
surrounded by trees, a place both bieldy and heart- 
some. The only thing that the Cameronians seri- 
ously felt the want of was a burying-ground round 
about it. A kirk is never quite commodious and 
cheery without monuments to read and thruchs ” 


A CAMERONIAN DIET OF WORSHIP. 


99 


to sit upon and “ ca’ the crack.” Now, however, 
they have made a modern church of it, and a steeple 
has been set down before it, for all the world as if 
Cleopatra’s needle had been added to the front wall 
of a barn. But Cairn Edward Cameronian kirk has 
long- been a gate of heaven. To many that entered 
it the solemn words heard there have brought the 
beginning of a new life and another world. Of old, 
as the morning Psalm went upward in a grand,^slow 
surge, there was a sense of hallowed days in the 
very air, and to this day Walter has a general idea 
that the mansions of the New Jerusalem are of the 
barn class of architecture and whitewashed inside, 
which will not show so much when it rubs off as it 
used to do on plain earthly “ blacks.” 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

A CAMERONIAN DIET OP WORSHIP. 

There were not many distractions for a boy of 
active habits and restless tendencies during the 
long double service of two hours and a bittock in 
the Cameronian Kirk of Cairn Edward. The min- 
ister was the Rev. Richard Cameron, the youngest 
scion of a famous Covenanting family. He had 
come to Cairn Edward as a stripling, and he was 
now looked upon as the future high priest of the 
sect in succession to his father, at that time minister 
of the metropolitan temple of the denomination. 


lOO 


A GALI.OWAT HERD. 


Tall, erect, with flowing black hair that swept his 
shoulders, and the exquisitely chiselled face of some 
marble Apollo, Richard Cameron was an ideal min- 
ister of the Hill Folk. His splendid eyes glowed 
with a still and chastened fire, and he walked with 
his hands behind him and his head thrown back, up 
the long aisle from the vestry. His successor was 
a much smaller, dapper man, who wore black 
gloves when preaching, and who seemed to dance a 
minuet under his spectacles as he walked, Alas ! 
to him, also, came in due time the sore heart and 
the bitter draught. They say in Cairn Edward that 
no man ever left that white church on the wooded 
knoll south of the town, and was happier for the 
change. The leafy garden where many ministers 
have written their sermons has seemed to them a 
paradise in after years, and their cry has been, “ Oh, 
why left I my hame !” 

But it was happy days for Richard Cameron when 
he brought his books and his violin to the manse 
that nestled at the foot of the hill. He came among 
men strict with a certain staid severity concerning 
things that they counted material, but yet far more 
kindly hearted and charitable than of recent years 
they have got credit for. 

Saunders did not object to the minister’s violin, 
being himself partial to a game at the ice, and will- 
ing that another man should also have his chosen 
relaxation. Then, when the young man began to 
realize himself, and lay about him in the pulpit, 
there were many who would tell how they remem- 
bered his father — preaching on one occasion the 
sermon that “ fenced the tables,” on the fast day 


A CAMEEONIAN DIET OF WORSHIP. 


lOI 


before the communion, when the partitions were 
out and the church crowded to the door — being op- 
pressed with the heat, craved the indulgence of the 
congregation to be allowed to remove his coat, and 
thereafter in his shirt sleeves struck terror into all 
by denunciations against heresy and infidelity, 
against all evil doing and evil speaking, barring the 
table of the Lord to “ all such as have danced or 
followed after playactors, or have behaved them- 
selves unseemly at Kelton Hill or other gatherings 
of the ungodly, or have frequented public houses 
beyond what is expedient for lawful entertainment, 
against all such as swear minced oaths, such as 
‘ losh,’ ^ gosh,’ ‘ fegs,’ ‘ certes,’ ‘ faith,’ and all 
such as swear by heaven or earth, or visit their 
neighbors’ houses upon the Lord’s Day, saving as 
may be necessary iiKcoming to the house of the 
Lord.” 

The young man could not be expected at once to 
come up to the high standard of this, which indeed 
proved to be too strong meat for any but a few of 
the sterner office-bearers, who had never heard 
their brother elders’ weaknesses so properly handled 
before ; but they had nevertheless to go round the 
people and tell them that what the great city doctor 
and father in the faith had said was to be under- 
stood spiritually, chiefly as a warning to other de- 
nominations, or there had been a thin kirk and but 
one spare table instead of the usual four or five at 
once on the day of high communion in the Cairn 
Edward Cameronian kirk. 

Walter cotdd be a quiet boy in church for a cer- 
tain time. He did not very much enjoy the service 


102 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


except when they sang “ Old Hundred ” or “ Scar- 
borough,” when he would throw back his head and 
warble delightedly with the best. But he listened 
attentively to the prayers, and tracked the minister 
over that well-kenned ground. Walter was pre- 
pared for his regular stint, but he did not hold with 
either additions or innovations. He liked to know 
how far he was on in the prayer, and it was with an 
exhausted gasp of relief that he caught the curious 
lowering of the preacher’s voice which tells that the 

Amen ” is within reasonable distance. The whole 
congregation were good at that, and began to relax 
themselves from their standing postures as the 
minister’s shrill pipe rounded the corner and 
tacked for the harbor ; but Walter was always 
before them. Once however, after he had seated 
himself, he was put to shame by the minister sud- 
denly darting off on a new excursion, having re- 
membered some other needful supplication which 
he had omitted. Walter never quite regained his 
confidence in Mr. Cameron after that. He had 
always thought him a good and reliable man 
hitherto, but now he was not so sure. 

Once, when the minister visited the farm of 
Drumquhat, Walter, being caught by his “ gran ” 
in the very act of escaping, was haled to instant 
execution with the shine of the soap on his cheeks 
and hair. But the minister was kind, and did not 
ask for anything more abstruse than “ Man’s Chief 
End.” He inquired, however, if the boy had ever 
seen him before. 

“ Ow, ay,” said Walter, confidently ; “ ye’re the 
man that sat at the back window !” 


A CAMEEONIAN DIET OF WORSHIP. IO3 

This was the position of the manse seat, and at 
the fast- day service Mr. Cameron had sat there 
when a stranger preached. Not the least of 
Walter’s treasures, now in his library, is a dusky 
little squat book called “ The Peep of Day,” with 
an inscription on it in Mr. Cameron’s minute back 
hand : “ To Walter Anderson, from the man at the 
back window.” 

The minister was grand that day. He preached 
his two discourses with only the interval of a Psalm 
and a prayer, and his second sermon was on the 
spiritual rights of a Covenanted kirk, as distin- 
guished from the worldly emoluments of an 
Erastian establishment. Nothing is so popular as 
to prove to people what they already believe, and 
that day’s sermon was long remembered among the 
Cameronians. It redd up their position so clearly, 
and settled their precedence with such finality, that 
Walter, hearing that the Frees had done far wrong 
in not joining the Church of the Protests and 
Declarations in 1843, resolved to have his schoolbag 
full of good road metal on the following morning, 
in order to impress the Copland boys with a sense 
of their position. But as the sermon proceeded on 
its conclusive way, the bowed ranks of the attentive 
Hill Folk bent further and further forward, during 
the long periods of the preacher, and when at the 
close of each they drew in a long, united breath 
like the sighing of the wind, and leaned back in 
their seats, Walter’s head began to nod over the 
chapters of First Samuel, which he was spelling 
out. David’s wars were a great comfort to him 
during long sermons. Gradually he dropped asleep. 


104 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


and wakened occasionally with a start when his 
“ gran ” nudged him w'hen Saunders happened to 
look his way. As the little fellow’s mind thus 
came time and again to the surface, he heard 
snatches concerning the Sanquhar Declarations and 
the Covenants, National and Solemn League, till it 
seemed to him as though the trump of doom w'ould 
crash before the minister had finished. And he 
wished it would. Anything for a change ! But at 
last, in sheer desperation, having slept apparently 
about a week, he rose with his feet upon the seat, 
and in his clear, childish treble he said, still dazed 
with sleep : 

Will that man no’ sune be dune ?” 

It was thus that the movement for short services 
began in the Cameronian kirk at Cairn Edward. 
They are an hour and twenty minutes now — a sore 
declension, as all will admit. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

THE RETURN FROM CHURCH. 

Again the red farm cart rattled out of the town 
in the silence of the hedges. For the first mile or 
two the church folk returning to the moor farm 
might meet and frankly reprove with word or look 
the “Sunday walkers,” who bit, shamefacedly, as 
well they might, the ends of hawthorn twigs, and 
communed together apparently without saying a 


THE RETURN FROM CHURCH. 


105 


word to each other. There were not many pairs of 
sweethearts among them — any that were being put 
down as “ regardless Englishry,” the spawn of the 
strange, uncanny-like building by the lock-side that 
the “ General ” had been intending to finish any 
time these half-dozen years. Mostly the walkers 
were young men with companions of their own sex 
and age, who were anxious to qualify as being 
broad in their views. Times have changed now, 
for we hear that quite respectable folk, even town 
councillors, take their walks openly on Sabbath 
afternoons. But it was otherwise in those days. 

But none of their own kind did the Drumquhat 
folk meet or overtake, till at the bottom rise of the 
mile-long Whinnyliggate Wood the red cart came up 
with the three brave little old maids who, leaving a 
Free kirk at their very door, and an Established 
over the hill, made their way seven long miles to 
the true kirk of the persecutions. It had always 
been a grief to them that there was no Clavers now 
to make them testify up to the chin in Solway tide, 
or with a great fiery match between their fingers to 
burn to the bone ; but what they could they did. 
They trudged every Sabbath day, with their dresses 
“ fate and snod ” and their linen like the very snow, 
to listen to the gospel preached according to their 
thinking. They were all the smallest of women, but 
their hearts were great, and those who knew them 
hold them far more worthy of honor than the three 
lairds of the parish. 

Of them all only one remains, but their name and 
honor shall not be forgotten on Deeside while fire 
burns and water runs, if Walter’s biographer can 


io6 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


help it. The M’Taggarts were all distinguished by 
their sturdy independence, but Jen M’Taggart was 
the cleverest with her head. The parish minister 
had once taken Jen for a person of limited intelli- 
gence, but he altered his opinion after Jen had taken 
him through hands upon the Settlement of Aughty- 
aught ” (i688), when the Cameronians refused to 
enter into the Church of Scotland as re-constructed 
by the Revolution of Settlement. 

The three sisters had a little shop which the two 
less active tended, while Mary, the business woman 
of the family, resorted to Cairn Edward every Mon- 
day and Thursday with and for a miscellaneous 
cargo. As she plodded the weary way, she divided 
herself between conning the sermons of the previ- 
ous Sabbath, arranging her packages, and anathe- 
matizing the donkey. “Ye person — ye awfu’ per- 
son !” was her severest denunciation. Billy was a 
donkey of parts. He knew what houses to call at, 
and it is said that he always brayed when he had to 
pass the Established kirk manse to express his feel- 
ings. But Billy was not a true Cameronian. It was 
always suspected that he could not be much more 
than Cameronian by marriage— a “ tacked on one,” 
in short. His path was by no means straightfor- 
ward, as that of one sound in the faith ought to be. 
It was easy to tell when Billy and his cart had 
passed along the road, for his tracks did not go for- 
ward, like all other wheel marks, but meandered 
hither and thither across the road, as though he 
were weaving some intricate web of his own devis- 
ing. He was called the Whinny liggate Express, 
and his record was a mile and a quarter an hour 


THE RETURN FROM CHURCH. 


107 

good going. Mary herself was generally tugging 
at him to come on. She pulled Billy, and Billy 
pulled the cart ; but nevertheless it was the will of 
Billy that was law. Walter was very glad to have 
the M ’Taggarts on the cart, both because he was 
allowed to walk all the time, and because he hoped 
to get Mary into a good temper against next Tues- 
day. Mary came the Drumquhat way twice a 
week, on Tuesdays and Fridays, and as Wattie went 
to school he met her, and, being allowed by his 
“ gran ” one penny to spend at Mary’s cart, he gen- 
erally occupied most of church time, and all school- 
time for a day or two before these red-letter occa- 
sions, on deciding what he would have. It did not 
make choice any easier that alternatives were 
strictly limited. While he was slowly and labori- 
ously making up his mind as to the long-drawn-out 
merits of four farthing biscuits, the way that “ Aber- 
nethies ” melted in the mouth arose before him with 
irresistible force, and just as he had settled to have 
these, the thought of charming explorations after 
the currants in a couple of “ cookies ” was really too 
much for him ; while the solid and enduring charms 
of a penny “Jew’s roll,” into which he could put his 
lump of butter, often entirely unsettled his mind. 
The consequence was that Wattie had always to 
make up his mind in the immediate presence of the 
object, and at that time neither Billy nor Mary 
would brook very long delays. It was important, 
therefore, to propitiate Mary as much as possible, so 
that she might not cut him short and proceed on her 
way without supplying his wants, as she had done 
once before. On that occasion she said : 


io8 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


D’ye think Mary M’Taggart has naething else 
in the world to do but stan’ still as long as it pleases 
you to gaup there ! Gin ye canna tell us what ye 
want, ye can e’en do withoot ! Gee up, Billy ; come 
oot o’ the roadside, ye’re aye eatin’, eat-eatin’, ye 
bursen craitur ye !” 

Walter had lived long enough to know on which 
side his bread was buttered, so he was especially 
kind to Mary when she got a ride up in the Drum- 
quhat cart on Sabbaths. The ride had been a happy 
one, and the day a memorable one for all. It was 
destined to be more memorable still ere it was 
ended. 


CHAPTER XX. 

THE SERPENT IN PARADISE. 

The red cart was now rapidly approaching the 
parting of the ways, or, as the place was called in 
the parish, “ The Upper Cross Roads.” One of the 
turnpikes led westward to the ferry over the Dee 
Water, through rocky glens and by gleaming hill 
tarns, while the other continued over the moors and 
by the loch-side to the village of Whinnyliggate. 
A stone’s throw before the meeting of the roads was 
a little bridge over an insignificant but irresponsible 
brook — a burn which executed the most astonishing 
cuttings and curves, and withal wimpled so entic- 
ingly that a baby could not have looked more 
innocent. But the neighbor farmers could tell you, 


THE SERPENT IN PARADISE. lOQ 

what the eye of the g'eologist would have detected 
at a glance, that every winter the Skyreburn came 
down twenty feet deep, and for twenty-four hours 
or so ran yeasty white and peaty brown sixty yards 
across in the narrows and a mile wide over the 
meadow levels. As the cart drove past the bridge 
a man turned and looked at the company. He had 
been leaning on the low granite-coped parapet, idly 
dropping pebbles into the water, yet he turned as 
though expecting to see something he looked for. 
Saunders gave him “ Good-day ” courteously, as he 
did to gentle and semple, but the stranger, whose 
clothes were of another cut and country, looked 
over Saunders’ head with a strange, cold, fixed look, 
and said no word. The cart swept on, rattling and 
jolting, Brown Jean tossing her head at the top of 
the brae to get the first glint of her stable end. 
Saunders noticed nothing, absorbed in going over 
the heads of the sermon, but Mary M’Quhirr heard 
a long, low sigh at her elbow, and turned to find 
that Nelly Anderson’s head had fallen on her 
shoulder, and that her face and hands were of a 
papery whiteness. 

“ The puir lass !” exclaimed Mary, with caressing 
compassion. “ The drive has been ower muckle for 
her ; I telled her this mornin’ she wad hae been 
better to hae bided at hame. Saunders, man, can 
ye no’ stop a wee, an* get some water ?” 

But Saunders drove on all the faster to the next 
trickle of water that fell from the hillside. In that 
countryside you could hardly get away from the 
sound of running water, save on the open moor- 
land, where the water slept in the still black wimp- 


1 10 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


ling’s of the peat-burns. Then he dismounted with 
the quick turn of one accustomed to getting off a 
cart, and, running to the spout of clear gray water 
that shone cool against the greenery, he filled his 
open hands with the plashing water, putting the 
outsides of the palms together to form a cup, or 
rather a basin — for the hands of the Master of 
Drumquhat were large like the hand of fate, and 
his “ gowpenfu ’ " held the better part of a pint. 

“ Let it dreep, Saunders,” said his wife ; “ dinna 
spoil her goun !” 

Had Mrs. M’Quhirr been condemned to the block 
she would have put on her best gown, and so 
arranged it that it would not have been spoiled ; 
but, of course, she was an unusual woman. 

So Saunders obediently let the water drip over 
the white face, and on the perfectly formed lips 
from which the color had faded. Walter, after a 
pause of wonderment, had resolved himself into a 
water supply, and was bringing more in his cap. 
After a little the water, the fanning and chafing 
did their work. Nelly Anderson revived and sat 
up, glancing somewhat fearfully around. 

As she looked along the empty road, she seemed 
to see round the curve and over the brae, as though 
conscious that some one was pursuing her. Mary, 
her motherly heart turned to this woman whose 
future seemed as clouded as her past had been 
mysterious, watched the direction of her eyes, while 
continuing to pet her as though she had been that 
baby daughter who had hardly breathed on the 
earth, yet whom she still loved with a subtle, silent, 
interior love. 


THE COMING OF THE SNOW. 


Ill 


“Hush, ye, ruy doo,” she said ; “naebody shall 
touch thee as lang as Saunders M’Quhirr an' his 
five sons are in Drumquhat !" 

And Wattie shouldered a dangerous-looking cud- 
gel plucked out of the hedge, and marched proudly 
along. He sidled round to his mother’s part of the 
cart. She lay propped on Mary M’Quhirr’s strong 
arm. 

“ Ye’re no’ feared noo, mither ?” he said. 

But in Nelly Anderson’s heart there was a cold 
presentiment of evil. The serpent had found her 
out, come into her paradise. In delivering her from 
one peril Felix had brought upon her one which 
seemed infinitely greater. It menaced her boy, 
the other only touched herself. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

THE COMING OF THE SNOW. 

Day after day passed quietly at Drumquhat, and 
as one week drew itself into another, Nelly Ander- 
son gradually forgot the terror of that day. The 
coldness of her fear resolved itself into trembling 
doubt whether she could have seen aright. It 
might well have been only part of her hallucination, 
and the strange man at the bridge only some ordin- 
ary tourist, who had seemed to her the embodiment 
of the evil spirit of her clouded and tempestuous 
past, which had so lately been so wonderfully 


II2 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


brought back to her. She comforted herself with 
the thought, and she watched her boy as he grew up 
like a young fir, so rapidly that in a few months he 
reduced his kilts to mere frillings. So, for very 
mensefulness, she had to take counsel with Mary 
M'Quhirr, and put him into knickerbockers, which 
she cut with a French grace and style which were 
thought uncanny among the hill folk. Ever since 
she had found her friend of old days, Felix Durand, 
he had paid her over regularly a considerable sum, 
telling her that it was her very own, and that the 
weight of his trust had been a burden on his mind 
for many years. 

And, indeed, she never thought of questioning 
anything that Father Felix did for her. She obeyed 
him with that unquestioning obedience that seemed 
his due from every one about him. When the first 
hundred pounds came, she took it with tears in her 
eyes to Saunders, and asked him to take it from her, 
not to pay him for his great kindness, but to make 
her happy. Saunders stood dumfoundered. Had 
one of his horses come to him with a hundred-pound 
note to thank him for stable-room, he would not 
have been more astonished. 

“ My lass,” he said, “ ye maunna do this. The 
mistress an’ me are no’ ill aff, an’ we hae made ye 
juist yin o’ oor ain.” 

Then let me be one of your very own, and let 
this help to pay the rent,” said she, and she laid a 
white, petitionary hand on his arm. 

Saunders stood in doubt, his grey eyes flashing a 
watery fire under his bushy eyebrow shocks. At 
last he said ; 


THE COMING OF THE SNOW. I 1 3 

“ Ay, Nelly, my lass, I'll tak’ the siller, an’ it’ll 
e’en help to pay the rent.” 

But Saunders put it in M’Clymont’s hank in Cairn 
Edward on deposit receipt in the name of Ellen 
Anderson, and as each installment was handed to 
him he took it on the following Monday. 

“ Send the notices to me,” said he to the banker, 
a man wisest of all that county in council, the gen- 
erous and unpaid repository of a thousand secrets, 
whose heart was like a fountain, but whose unruly 
member was in perfect control. 

Mr. M’Clymont sat sideways on his chair in his 
little office, under the row of Edinburgh almanacs 
that had heard so many stories, sad and glad, and 
his hands were folded placidly before him, only 
the thumbs ran round and round after each other as 
though they were running a race. He knew Saun- 
ders through and through, for he was a fellow-elder 
in the Cameronian kirk up on the hill ; also, he 
knew the soundness of Saunders’ finance, having 
made his little investments for him. 

“ That’s not quite regular,” he said, with a smile, 
“ but I think we can manage it.” 

So henceforth the notices and receipts came en- 
closed in Saunders’ own, and it rested with Saun- 
ders to open them, which with no compunction he 
did, and filed them away in the corner of the old 
wooden desk in which his precious things were 
kept. It was a carefully secured safe. Saunders 
carefully locked it every time he shut it, and the 
fact that it opened quite freely from the back was 
nothing to him. It had not had a hinge for some 
twenty years— indeed, never since the winter when 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


II4 

Aleck had the measles and had been given the desk 
to play with. That young man had removed the 
hinges with the assistance of the poker. But it was 
quite as safe as it sat on the top of the drawers’ 
head as though it had been in Mr. M’Clymont’s 
strong room in Cairn Edward. The session records 
lay on the top of it. When Saunders consulted 
Mary her rapidity of “ uptak " was astonishing, and 
we know what was her familiarity with the session 
records in the case of Janet Adair. 

The winter snow was long in coming that year in 
Drumquhat. The banks of dark gray clouds had 
showed several times over the moors, and the long, 
bleak ridge of Ben Gairn had been white for a 
month ; but now, in the middle of January, came 
the first big fall. It began just as the short daylight 
was fading away. The flakes fell slow and silent. 
There was no wind at first, and each flake settled 
upon the last like a curled feather, some of them as 
broad as the palm of Wattie’s hand. He and Yar- 
row had a great time. Together with Donald, his 
belligerent black “ pet lamb,” lamb no longer, Wat- 
tie and his dog had been holding the highest of car- 
nivals. Donald had been a “sucklie.” Mary 
M’Quhirr had begun to feed him on the coffee-pot 
with the muslin over the “ stroop,” and had made a 
great sheep of him. But he was slow to develop 
the gravity of his years and race. He was not gen- 
tle, he was anything but meek, and his activity 
was astonishing. An English cousin of Mary, who 
came once to Drumquhat for a day, and saw Donald 
climb a bare rock and a six feet wall apparently 
without the slightest effort, refused to believe that 


THE COMING- OF THE SNOW. II5 

the creature was a sheep at all ; and, indeed, Don- 
ald had small kin to the equable Southdowns. He 
did not associate with other sheep at all. He never 
even spoke to them, and if he had to go away from 
the farmyard he went with the cows ; and not one of 
them, or even the short-legged hornless bull, dare 
say a cross word to Donald, who would instantly 
draw off to the side, and, charging in unexpectedly 
from flank or rear, with a dour head down among 
their legs, would bring the mighty down in a heap 
in a moment, which was a very surprising thing to 
the dull bovine capacity, though familiar enough to 
Donald. But Donald did not go out much with the 
cows. He hid till they were gone, for loafing about 
the farm was much more in his line. 

The game at which Wattie and his two friends 
played was a very simple one. It was excellent ex- 
ercise for a snowy night. Wattie stood on a little 
hump of rock (which has always seemed to him to 
be at least ten feet high, till he went back this year 
and found it barely three), and, steadying himself 
with outstretched legs, he waited Donald’s charge. 
That admirable animal entered thoroughly into the 
spirit of the game, and came behind him like a bat- 
tering ram, first propelling Wattie into the air, and 
then sending him sprawling into the snow. There- 
after Donald fled in pretended terror, with the dog 
Yarrow on his track, soon to be caught and over- 
turned, with the dog’s muzzle harmlessly filled with 
his wool. Sometimes there would be a grand trian- 
gular combat, and all three would arise from the 
snow dusty as the miller. Walter used both indif- 
ferently for riding horses for somewhat brief peri- 


A GALLOWAY HEKD. 


Il6 

ods. The dog had one way of getting rid of his 
rider, the sheep another. Yarrow simply sat down, 
and Walter slid backwards upon the snow. Don- 
ald, on the other hand, put down his nose and ele- 
vated his hind quarters. Both methods were equally 
effective, but Donald would proceed to pound the 
fallen rider with his fore feet. This Wattie consid- 
ered scoundrelly and unfair. It was on one of these 
occasions that he told Donald that he would make 
very good mutton, a remark for which he had after- 
wards to apologize. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

EARNING A SIXPENCE. 

Walter had his hands full that night. It was 
the first snow since he had been promoted to breeks. 
Kilts are unkindly wear in winter time for young 
legs, and discourage rolling in the snow. But with 
the enlarged possibilities of hodden grey knickers 
and roundabout so thick that with a little trouble 
and propping they would stand beside the bed by 
themselves when their tenant had gone to the 
breekless land, Wattie felt that life was anew thing. 
At six o’clock he was distinctly cheeky to his friend 
Aleck, to whom the mischief of a great-boned country 
lad was natural as capers to a young horse. In the 
house he liv^ed a life of some repression, though 
Saunders was far too kind knowingly to discourage 


EARNING A SIXPENCE. 


II7 

anything- that was harmless. He smiled on any 
decent neighbor lads who came about the farm town 
in the gloamings, and he had even a canny blind 
eye when his eldest went off to see the lasses at the 
neighboring steading of Nether Nuik. Nether 
Nuik was plentifully stocked with daughters, and 
Aleck sometimes slipped over there to the grief of 
his mother — for mothers see things differently when 
it is their own sons who go a-courting. 

Hoot, Mary,” said her husband, with a look of 
the old time in his eye, “ what for div ye mourn 
aboot the lad gangin’ ower by for a quiet blink ? 
Ye ken it was i’ the gloamin’ that ye cam’ to the 
loanin’ yett at the Shirmers. Dinna flyte on the 
laddie ; ye ken it’ll do nae guid, an’ the lad's a guid 
lad an’ aye hame in time to supper the horse.” 
(They use the cavalry plural in Galloway). 

But this is a subject trying to the most wise 
mother, and Mary M’Quhirr could not see the mat- 
ter in this light. 

“ Saun’ers M’Whurr, I wunner to hear ye, an’ 
you an elder in the kirk, uphaudin’ thae heverals 
o’ Chrystie lasses — ay’ an’ evenin’ them to yer ain 
mairriet wife. The last time that I was up at the 
Nuik, I declare if they werena milkin’ the kye in 
their black gouns’, the tawpies, an’ a silly gomeral 
handin’ ilka coo’s tail ! Did ye ever see me milkin’ 
the kye in my bettermous goun, or letting a great 
sumph o’ a calf hand his minnie’s tail to keep it oot 
o’ my een ? Na, Saunders, ye kenned better than 
to come to the byre when it was me that was 
milkin’ — ” 

“Weel,” interjected Saunders, quietly, “but 


Il8 A GALLOWAY HERD. 

aiblins I hae gotten a bit glisk o’ ye frae the door 
cheek, an’ as far as I can mind ye didna look across 
yer nose at me aither !” 

“ An’ gin ye did, Saunders, ye saw me with the 
coo’s tail atween my knee an’ the pail like a decent 
wumman !” 

Saunders tried again. There was a twinkle in 
his eye this time. 

“ Hoo was’t, then, Mary, that the twa luggies 
was spilled at the corner o’ the byre when ye were 
carryin’ them to the milk-hoose — ay, an’ that within 
ten yairds o’ the back o’ yer faither’s decent blue 
coat wi’ the brass buttons on it ?” 

The mistress of Drumquhat was overcome. 
Saunders had made her smile, and the day was his 
own. 

“ Juist because it was the back o' my faither’s 
coat, I suppose,” said Mary, with a girlish look of 
reminiscent shyness coming into her douce, 
matronly face. 

There are chords which may be long silent in a 
woman’s heart, but which, when rightly touched, 
carry her back to her girlhood. All good women 
remain girls till the day of their death. Now, 
Saunders was a very wise man, and he said never 
a word more, but instead he placed his large hand 
on his wife’s shoulder and gave it a quiet and satis- 
fied clap. Mary looked round in terror lest any 
one should have witnessed the unseemly familiarity. 
Had anothei man done the same it would not have 
put her nearly so much about. Only, that man’s 
ear would have sung for a day or two. It was of 
Mary M’Quhirr that this tale was fold in that 


EARNING A SIXPENCE. 1 19 

countryside : A tramp who had watched all the 
household away to the fields, he himself lurking in 
the lee of a hayrick, entered one morning the kitchen 
where she was baking, and demanded ransom, with 
threats of dire intent. Mary M’Quhirr lifted up her 
voice, and to the would-be ruffian she said : 

“ Man, did onybody see ye come in ?” 

‘‘No,” said the tramp, anxious to prove that for 
her there was no hope of rescue ; “ no a body saw 
me come in.” 

“ That’s weel,” Mary answered, no ways abashed, 
“ for naebody will see ye gang oot ! Lassie, reek 
(reach) me the axe !” 

But when the weapon of death was reached, and 
the mistress marched to the door with it over her 
shoulder, the very faint-hearted robber was making 
the best of time toward the flowers of the moorland. 
It was not the least bitter drop in his cup that he 
was pursued as he ran by peals of inextinguishable 
laughter. Mary was not a frequent laugher, but 
when she did laugh the neighborhood heard, and 
came to inquire the joke. Then she laid aside the 
axe, and went about her work, and had almost 
forgotten the circumstance when the men from the 
field came in to ask at “ lowsin ” time what the fun 
had been. 

It was shortly after her interview with Saunders 
that Wattie was brought in and admonished. Mary 
had perforce to show a little sternness to some- 
body to make up for her recent soft-heartedness to 
her husband ; but Wattie was in no wise intimidated. 
With an eye to further ploys he took his porridge 
\yith most hypocritical gravity, plannin|f how hQ 


120 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


would get out for another grand run in the snow 
before he went to bed. His wish was gratified in 
this wise. The snow was coming down a steady 
cover, and when it was a couple of feet deep on the 
open, the swirl of the wind had driven it into the 
angle of the yard, till over a wide area it lay as 
deep as the height of a man. Through these 
wreaths the “ boys ” were opening roads. With 
their great, wide-mouthed shovels they laid them- 
selves into their work — not working any the less 
well that they were occasionally under the eyes of 
Walter’s mother, who came to the door now and 
then to see how they were getting on. None of 
them looked upon her as other than a goddess, and 
in a distant kind of a way they had all been in love 
with her in their time. They had never told her, 
or so much as owned it to themselves ; but there 
came a time in the history of each one when they 
began to take stock of ribbon and belt, and the set 
of Nelly Anderson’s rippling hair. They were 
eager to make the least message that might take 
them into the “room.” And the experience did 
them good, and broke them in. Nelly was not 
wholly unconscious, for all women know these 
things ; and she made them fetch and carry for her. 
Though they slouched like louts when she took 
them in hand, they were well set up and strapping- 
fellows before they graduated, and went off on 
errands of their own in the forenicht to the Nether 
Nuik and the other farm towns. Generally it was 
the other ones, for on going to the Nuik one even- 
ing, James and Rab, two younger sons, who gener- 
ally hunted as a couple, found as they looked shyly 


EARNING A SIXPENCE. 


I2I 


round the corner of the byre door their brother 
Aleck in possession of the dun cow’s tail. They 
could not see which of the Chrystie lasses it was 
that was milking, and they never knew, for their 
brother dismissed them with one biting word of 
scorn. 

He looked at them a moment, and, as they shrunk 
from his eye, he uttered this withering word : 

“ Follow dick r 

What the apocalyptic mystery of this bitter taunt 
may be, the historian is unable to say ; but it was 
certainly effective, for the youths vanished into the 
dark, and in the meanest and meekest way trickled 
round the corner, and so out into the waste of 
whiteness underfoot and blackness above. Aleck 
never referred to the matter, and next day James 
and Rab tried to persuade themselves that it had 
never happened. 

So it was with some goodwill that these lads 
opened their shoulders and threw their white spade- 
fuls higher than their heads when the bright glow 
of the lamp and fireside gushed warm upon the 
snow, and Nelly and Wattie came out to tread for 
a few moments the dainty white arcades. Nelly 
had a shawl about her head and shoulders, and 
Aleck vaguely wondered why Nancy up at the 
Nuik could not wear a shawl like that. He sup- 
posed that the folks wore them in that way in 
France. On the other hand, nobody had ever come 
to take Nancy Chrystie away, and in his slow- 
thinking, country way he was glad. But when 
Nelly had gone her way to the stable door, and be- 


122 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


fore she had come lightly stepping back, he had the 
grace to be ashamed of his thoughts. 

When his mother went in, Wattie slipped aside 
and did not follow her. He went into the cart shed 
and put his fingers into his ears lest he should hear 
her call him. Had he heard he would have gone, 
for he had a great idea of obedience. 

The ** boys " were in gamesome humor, Aleck es- 
pecially. He was thinking of a good thing that he 
came near saying to Nancy Chrystie, and he slapped 
his thigh and would have guffawed on the strength of 
it. Indeed, he opened his mouth for the purpose ; 
but his brother Rab, who was the wag of the family, 
having a neat snowball in his hand, popped it in as 
accurately as he would have dropped a ball of 
worset into a bonnet when at school the caps were 
arrayed for the game royal of “ Bonnet-ba." Aleck, 
after a gasp or two, gave chase, and there was a 
battle in which snow was pushed into various un- 
comfortable places, mainly down each other’s backs 
and sleeves. After they had settled this little mat- 
ter, it came into Rab’s head to say to Wattie : 

“ Wattie, I’ll gie ye a saxpance if ye’ll gang frae 
the hoose-door by yersel’, across the yaird through 
the barn, an’ shut the back barn door.” 

“ Let the boy alane !” said Aleck ; ye ken what 
my mither’ll say.” 

But Rab was excited with his tussle, and full of 
mischief as he could be. 

“ Ay, he’s feared, nae doot !” said Rab, knowing 
that this was the way to make Wattie quite deter- 
mined, 


EARNING A SIXPENCE. 12 3 

“ Ay, but I daur !” said Wattie ; whaur’syer six- 
pence, Rab ?” 

Wattie could not take Rab’s financial position on 
trust. He had been cheated too often. 

“ Oh,” returned Rab, affronted at the implied 
doubt, yell get yer sixpence !” 

“ Doon wi’t then,” said Wattie, practically. 

Rab reluctantly searched in the depths of his 
“ hook-book,” getting as near as possible to the 
blindless window through which the lamp was shin- 
ing in order to see more clearly, and somewhat re- 
luctantly passed over a coin to Alec, whose integrity 
made him always stake-holder. 

“ Dinna gie me half a sovereign, Rab !” cried 
Jamie from the milk-hoose, with bitter irony. Jamie 
was fond of cream. 

“Come oot o’ the milk-bine, or I’ll tell my 
mither !” retorted Rab, and all the three young men 
passed into the outer lobby, leaving Walter alone 
outside to prove the manhood of his breeks by his 
quest perilous. As Aleck passed him, he forced a 
stout cudgel into his hand, and whispered : 

“ Gin ye see onything, hit it !” 

This was hardly reassuring, but Wattie gripped 
his rung, and took his way across the yard. He 
thought of going back and opening the door. He 
would have given far more than the sixpence for a 
ray of light from the open doorway ; but he knew 
that this would be looked upon as a proof of cow- 
ardice, and he strode manfully onward. The snow 
had ceased falling, and the sky was glittering with 
keen frost. The cold entered into his marrow, and 
the stillness made him shiver. He heard the cattle 


124 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


champing their food and rattling the iron of their 
chains in their stalls, and he felt befriended. He 
went onward with new courage. He reached the 
great barn-door, which gaped upon him like the 
great, black mouth of a sepulchre. His heart came 
quick and faint, and there was a curious constriction 
about his throat. But he manfully entered, and, 
standing an awful listening moment before ventur- 
ing further, he heard the “ rattens rustling among 
the straw. Otherwise the stillness was absolute. 
He felt a thousand miles away from any one, and 
it did not seem to him that he could even be the 
same boy who had played with Donald on the rocks 
in the gloaming. 

He stooped and felt the edge of the door at the 
further side. He was looking into a sort of small 
stackyard, and between the corn stacks which rose 
imminent over him the stars were glimmering cold 
and blue. His nearest friend seemed to live in one 
of these — so lonely did the boy feel in spite of his 
breeks. The door was barred, and well barred too, 
for he determined to have no doubt about his right 
to that sixpence. He turned and took one step 
towards the great gray gulf of the main door. The 
blood of all his little body surged to his head, and 
his heart stopped. There was Something in the door- 
way — something that had dull, gleaming eyes and 
horns — something that crawled on the ground, and 
turned its horrid, shapeless head from side to side 
with a low, moaning noise. For an awesome 
moment Wattie stood without power to move, and 
then, thinking that the time of his death had come^ 
amid a whirl of other things, Aleck’s advice stood 


EARNING A SIXPENCE, 


125 


suddenly clear, and he resolved to strike one last 
good stroke. So, clutching his short blackthorn in 
both hands, he struck the moving, moaning horror 
fair between its glazy eyes of death, and, leaping 
over it, he fled with shriek on shriek for the door. 
As it was opened, the boy sank fainting on the door- 
step. An agitated throng stood round him, and 
some one stooping over took up the slight form of 
the hero. Then the tall form of the master of Drum- 
quhat filled up the doorway. 

“ Gin this is ony o’ your loon’s tricks,” he said, 
“ I’ll break every bone in your bodies !” 

Rab slept that night in the barn, with a lump on 
his forehead as large as the ball of his thumb. He 
had wrapped the skin of a bullock killed that day 
about him, and had crawled in the dark of the wall 
to intercept the boy as he came out. He had not 
meant any harm, though he had thoughtlessly done 
what might have endangered the child’s reason. 
He heard his father’s words, and recognized that, 
cold night though it was, the barn would be the 
most comfortable sleeping-place that night for him. 
He watched the group in the kitchen as Wattie 
‘‘ came to,” and after seeing him so far recover as to 
demand the sixpence from Aleck, he might have 
ventured to dare his father’s hazel stick, but he 
could not face Nelly Anderson’s eyes. So he went 
back to the barn. 


126 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

WHAT RAB FOUND IN THE BARN. 

Robert M’Quhirr, the youngest of the five sons 
of the farmtown of Drumquhat, was no coward. 
The family did not breed them. The blood of 
Drumclog and Bothwell Brig was yet no ways 
degenerate. Since Clavers had ridden over them 
in vain, two more centuries of that stern gray land 
and the hardy arbitrament of farm work on un- 
kindly soil had weeded out the over-tender plants. 
So Rab had no intention of being easily “ fleyed 
(frightened). He had slept in the barn before — for 
his health — but he generally avoided that necessity 
in winter-time as far as he could. He was what is 
known as a “ steerin’ loon,” and more than occa- 
sionally he had to learn the tonic qualities of “hazel 
oil.” Life was paternal in the Galloway uplands, 
and many a son took a thrashing from his father 
after he was “ man-muckle ” and thought himself 
all the better for it. Of course Rab preferred to do 
without it — if he could — but he bore no ill-will to 
his father in any case. It was his father’s duty (for 
which he had to answer to the minister) to discipline 
his family. It was his own to keep a whole skin. 
On both sides it was without prejudice, as the 
lawyers say. So he proceeded to make himself 
comfortable in the barn on the top of the corn-mow 
as best he could. He wished that he had been 
small enough to creep through the triangular wicket 


WHAT RAB FOUND IN THE BARN. 12/ 

into that excavated cave at the back of the mcw 
which Wattie had diligently made for himself ; but 
no one could get through the wickets except Walter, 
so he had to content himself with the bed tem- 
porarily made in the mow. His mother came to 
the house door two or three times, and called 
“ Rab !” He would have liked to come out at her 
call, for the barn was getting a little bit eerie, and 
he did not even like the thought of the dead 
bullock’s horns and hide lying outside the barn 
door, where he had thrown them. He heard Aleck 
speaking to his mother from within the house, and 
he knew that she was being reassured that he was 
perfectly safe, and told that when he was- tired of 
stopping out — why, then, he would come in ! Aleck 
was a believer in laissez faire. Rab knew that the 
outer door would not be locked that night, and that 
his mother would sleep with one ear set towards 
the click of its latch. 

Rab went to the stable and fetehed a eomfortable 
rug', in which he w’rapped himself, and, inserting 
his long body into a pit dug diagonally in the mow, 
he drew a corn sack or two about him, and made all 
taut. There was nothing alarming about sleeping 
in the barn to a lad of his inches and experience. 
Rats he held in contempt, and their constant rust- 
ling among the sheaves and their squeaking scuffles 
on the floor of the barn only soothed him to sleep. 
Rats had been everywhere about the farm since 
ever Rab could remember, and he minded them no 
more than flies. The upper half of the barn door 
he left open, though the chill frosty air came in — 
partly that the darkness might not be so oppressive, 


128 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


and partly that he might be able to see along the 
narrow arcade through the snow which he had 
helped to make through the snow drift to the front 
door. When he lay down first his feet had been 
cold and his brain hot. In a little, as his feet 
warmed and the cold air cooled his brain, he became 
drowsier, till the stars began to waver and sway 
from side to .side as if he had been seeing their re- 
flection in rippling water. Rab cleared his eyes a 
time or two, said his prayers, and dived into a dark- 
blue sea of sleep, deep as the midnight sky above 
him. 

How long he slept he could not tell, but all of a 
sudden he came wide awake with a suppressed 
gasp, and a feeling that something had taken him 
by the throat. For a moment he could not remem- 
ber what he was doing in the barn, and he was 
about to call out, thinking it must be Aleck or his 
mother come to seek him, when the sense of some- 
thing mysterious struck him silent. He glanced at 
the stars, striving with the craft of the intelligent 
shepherd to get some idea of what time it was from 
God’s great illuminated clock. This art is mostly 
lost now in Galloway. The Waterbury watch has 
killed it, but thirty years ago it was not uncommon. 
But what Rab saw made him forget the stars. The 
lower half of the great barn door was now open, 
and just outside the threshold, on the narrow snow- 
covered pavement of rough cobble stones, lay 
something black, which had a rough resemblance to 
the shape of a man lying prone on his face. Rab’s 
heart stilled within him as another consciousness 
grew to certainty. There was some one else in the barn — 


WHAT RAB FOUND IN THE BARN. 


129 


man or thing — something that moves stealthily, 
breathlessly, that shuffled its feet, and groped and 
groped in the dark. Rab’s blood congealed. This 
was worse than his father’s stick. It was terrible 
to be groped for in the dark by something blind, 
silent, pitiless. Rab tried to make a break for it to 
the door, but even as he did so the thing crossed the 
modified darkness of the great square door, for a 
moment shutting off the rats. The lad’s muscles 
became like water, and he had that sense of utter 
powerlessness in the face of imminent danger which 
comes to young nerves in their first real peril, but 
to older men oftenest in some nightmare of the 
small hours. Gradually he awoke to the conscious- 
ness that the sightless groping was exclusively along 
the walls and on the floor. Rab could hear it brush 
the corn mow. That made a sharp, momentary 
sound, but he could hear the feet of the unknown 
pause at each new object on the floor. The bushel 
which always stood tumbled on its edge against the 
wall half way along came down scraping the un- 
plastered stones with a harsh, grating noise. Then 
there was silence absolute for a minute. Rab was 
sure that he did not breathe, and he wished that he 
could stop his heart also. Its noise seemed in that 
still place like the thumping of a mill-wheel, when 
the mill-lade is running free. 

Soon the groping recommenced, but it was now 
in the far corner of the barn, where stood the old 
turnip-cutter between the shafts of the unused tax- 
cart. Suddenly from that corner came the sharp 
blue spurt of a match being struck, and Rab had 
only time to withdraw his head into his corn sacks, 


130 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


when the tiny jet of light seemed to fill the barn to 
bursting with illumination. Rab could, however, 
see out of his hay cavern, though imperfectly and 
with difficulty, a tall man standing in the corner of 
the barn shading the match with his hand. He 
could not see his face, which was hidden beneath 
the downward bend of a great black hat, but he no- 
ticed that one arm lay very close to his side, and 
that the man’s whole body had a sharp twist to the 
left. It was Rab’s first intention, whenever he 
realized that the intruder was a man, to jump out 
and ask him what he was doing in his father’s barn, 
but the stranger’s movements fascinated him. In 
the wicket at which the man was standing there 
was the butt of one of his mother’s farthing dips, 
which was used to give light to the threshing floor 
on the dark mornings when the boys rose to the 
flail at five o’clock. Before the match burned out 
the stranger touched the candle with it, and induced 
first a feeble splutter and then a faint peep of light. 
The wick just caught, but threatened every moment 
to go out. The man drew from the pocket of his 
long coat something which Rab had never seen be- 
fore, but which he instinctively knew to be a revol- 
ver. Rab had one or two books that his father 
knew nothing about. One of them was by a man 
named Mayne Reid, and was so interesting that 
Rab knew that it must be a very wicked book. 
This was how Rab discriminated literary good and 
evil. A good book was a book that you did not 
want to read, a bad book was one that you read in 
spite of yourself— a rule easy to be remembered. 


WHAT KAB FOUND IN THE BAKN. I3I 

So he knew a revolver when he saw one. Revol- 
vers are not mentioned in good books. 

The revolver of the novel of those days was a 
deadly weapon — more comprehensive than the Nor- 
denfeldt gun of modern times — stopping a simul- 
taneous charge of fifty Indians from all points of 
the compass ; more accurate than the rule of three, 
for Rab remembered about cutting the bonds of the 
maiden bound to the stake (at fifty paces, was it ?), 
He was therefore quiet, but his superstitious terrors 
had vanished. Rab had thought of emigrating so 
as to possess a revolver, but this was better. He 
would show them that he was not a boy. They 
were all in their beds sleeping, and he, the young- 
est, was in the deadly imminent breach. A mo- 
ment afterward he wished he had been anywhere 
else. The man took a step in his direction, and 
Rab gave himself up for lost. But the man, as the 
candle flickered out, stooped and picked up a double 
twist of plow-rope from the hard-beaten earthen 
floor of the barn. Then he went to the door and 
looked out. The dark object was still lying motion- 
less in the snow. The man stooped and threw it 
about his shoulders in the form of a cloak. With- 
out pausing to shut the door of the barn, he went 
silently towards the dwelling house of Drumquhat, 
which could be seen silhouetted against the glim- 
mering snow. Rab was out of his hole in a mo- 
ment, and at the door. The man went straight to 
the window of the room where Walter’s mother 
slept. Rab knew that Wattie was sleeping that 
night with her, probably on the strength of the 
fright he had got, for he had seen the double 


132 


A GALI-OWAY HERD. 


shadow on the blind before he went to sleep. As 
the man turned the corner of the cart-shed Rab 
slipped out of the back door of the barn, and was 
round behind the corner of the little fir plantation 
under whose shadow the snow lay sparsely. He 
had hardly got himself hidden before the tall fig- 
ure came round the corner, and paused a moment 
before going up to Nelly Anderson’s window. Rab 
had time to wonder where the dogs were that they 
made no sign, then he remembered that they would 
be in the kitchen, quite at the other end of the long, 
low, rambling house — a part of the house entered 
by an entirely different door — and that the snow 
deadened every footstep. The man approached the 
window, laid the rope, which was over his left arm, 
on the snow, inserted something under the sill of 
the window, which instantly gave noiselessly up- 
wards half its height, and prepared to make his w^ay 
through the opening thus made. But at this mo- 
ment Rab, knowing that the time had come for 
him to do something, stepped lightly from his cov- 
ert, and, just as the man put his head within the 
room, the lad’s two heavy hands were laid on his 
shoulders, and he was dragged back into the snow. 
There was a deadly conflict, waged with short gasps, 
but otherwise in silence. The adversary was the 
stronger man, but Rab was no mean foe. His 
grasp upon the throat of his antagonist, in spite of 
his struggles, was not to be shaken off, and it was 
with a feeling of triumph that Rab felt his efforts 
slacken. The thought that victory was within his 
grasp ran like wine through his veins. They would 
not call him “ the wean ” any more— those who lay 


WHAT KAB FOUND IN THE BARN. 1 33 

in bed like logs while he, Rab, was defending the 
house ; and, above all, what would Nelly Anderson 
say ? 

Alas ! just then something sweet and clammy 
was dasfied in his face, a million lights ran round 
him in a ring, his grasp relaxed, and he fell back 
with a sigh on the snow. At that moment there 
came from the other side of the house the sound of 
a door being opened. The man hastily gathered 
his cloak, and stepped into the darkness of the little 
plantation which sheltered the farm on three sides. 
He glided stooping under the horizontal boughs, 
and followed it all the way till at the north end he 
struck down the loaning and vanished. 

A light snow was just beginning to fall, and the 
sky was overcasting. A solemn wrack of clouds 
was drifting up from the south, and the snow-haze 
that drove before them wiped the .sky of stars as a 
boy wipes his slate. As the man vanished a shawl- 
wrapped figure came round the house. It was 
Mary M’Quhirr looking for her youngest son. She 
had been at the barn, but had found there only 
silence and emptiness. Her eyes caught the dark 
object lying at the “ doon-the-house ” window, and 
she went quickly forward. It was her own Rab 
lying on his face in the snow, beside him a coil of 
rope, and the frame of Nelly Anderson’s window 
open. It said much for Mary M’Quhirr’s belief in 
her training of her children that no thought of evil 
came into her mind. Neither did a doubt of Nelly 
Anderson cross her mind. She had been won- 
drously reassured during the last six months about 
that young woman, and that too by events whose 


134 


A GALLOWAY HELD. 


bearing’ might have seemed to be all the other way ; 
but happily she was a woman, and therefore illogi- 
cal. God pity us men if women were not so ! Mary 
listened at the window ; she heard the two breath- 
ings from the darkness where the bed was — one 
long and slow, the other quicker, ever falling out of 
step, as it were, and then again making up. She 
softly drew the window down, and stood a moment 
to think how she could get the boy in. Assured 
that he was breathing, she wrapped her shawl about 
his head and shoulders, and ran into the house. In 
a minute she came out with her husband. Saunders 
without comment took his son in his arms, and 
carried him into the kitchen, where he laid him on 
his own plaid on the warm hearthstone. The boy 
would not waken, and after exhausting all the or- 
dinary means known to their simple pharmacoepia, 
the father and mother sat down beside their boy, 
saying no word, but each chafing a hand, till the 
gray light of morning began to come, and the lad 
looked up, bewildered. After a few minutes Saun- 
ders asked with a stern tenderness what was the 
meaning of all this. Rab grew bit by bit into the 
sense of his heroship, and told the story as connect- 
edly as he could. It was the bitterest disappoint- 
ment to him that his father evidently did not believe 
one word of the tale. Saunders thought that the 
boy had been walking in his sleep and had dreamed 
the rest. He told Rab, in a way not to be mistaken, 
to say nothing about it, but to go quietly upstairs to 
his bed. Mary M’Quhirr was not so sure. She had 
seen the open window, and she did not think that 
the true-hearted Rab could either have been d^- 


THE MORNING AFTER. 


135 


ceived or have deceived her. She went out as soon 
as it was daylight to the barn. She found easily 
enough Rab’s hole from which he had risen, with 
the corn sacks pulled out on the floor. She also 
found in the corner the candle burned to the gut- 
tered butt, and on the hard earth in the corner a 
match of a kind not seen in Galloway. Then she 
took a complete tour of the farm-steading, looking 
for footsteps ; but the later snow had covered all, 
and even in the little wood, though there was less 
snow than in the open, there was enough to confuse 
Rab’s footmarks with those of any other who might 
have been there also. Altogether she felt that she 
had not enough evidence to go before the jury, and 
so she said nothing to her husband. Neither said 
Saunders another v/ord to her, but she knew instinc- 
tively that she was not to speak of the matter. 
Snell and sharp-tongued as Mary M’Quhirr was, she 
yielded loyally in all great matters to the silent, 
great-hearted man who was her husband. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

THE MORNING AFTER. 

It was a strange dawning at Drumquhat. The 
father and mother had not thought it worth their 
while to go to bed. Saunders had gone out to 
fodder the beasts, and finding after having done so 
that he had still time on his hands, he went into the 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


136 

Stable to attend to the horse.” There were three 
of them, and Brown Jess, who was Aleck’s favorite, 
looked over her shoulder as he entered for the lump 
of sug-ar which that youth was wont to steal from 
his mother’s sugar bowl for his sweet-mouthed 
friend. Finding, however, that her groom was not 
Aleck, and that there was no lump of sugar for her, 
she jibbed and stood obstinately sideways in the 
stall, attempting at the same time to give her 
placid neighbor, “ Mary Gray,” a sly kick as if she 
were responsible for her disappointment. But Jess 
received from Saunders so solid a slap upon her 
flank and so emphatic a swing round that she 
instantly became aware of herself and alive to the 
necessity of sobermindedness. She was an elder’s 
horse, and her skittish tricks must be reserved for a 
scampish young rapscallion who went over in the 
evenings to hold the tail of Nether Neuk’s kye. 
Soon Aleck came in at the stable door yawning and 
stretching himself, complaining in an undertone 
that it was a cold morning for a fellow to get up so 
early. There never was a more astonished youth 
than he when his father met him face to face, and 
saluted him with : 

“ This is a bonny like time to be comin crawlin’ 
oot o’ yer bed, man. Mair like ye gin ye stayed 
mair at hame at nicht. Ye wad be mair gleg at 
risin’ i’ the mornin’, I’m thinkin’ ! 

“ ‘ 'Tis the voice of the sluggard, I hear him complain, 

You have waked me too soon, I must slumber again.’ ” 

Aleck had heard of this gentleman before more 
tbaq QiiQCj but he had too much respegt for his 


THE MORNING AFTER. 


137 


father’s morning temper to say so. He resolved to 
give his parent a wide berth till after breakfast. 
He went somewhat ostentatiously to the cobwebby 
window-sill, where the curry combs were laid. 

“ Yer wark’s a’ dune,” said his father, grimly ; 
“ ye can gae ben the hoose an’ coont yer neck- 
ties.” 

This was a taunt exceeding bitter, for Aleck was 
developing a taste in neckcloths not counted becom- 
ing in the son of a Cameronian elder. A fine 
emerald green he found most effective at close 
quarters — say, on a fornicht when the lads and lasses 
were gathered round the cheery ingle of Nether 
Neuk. He had acquired this particular tie about 
the same time that Nance Chrystie got a particular 
neck ribbon which was known among the game- 
some callants as Nance’s Donnybrook tether.” 
He had been much teased about the matter among 
the lasses, and liked it so well that he would put it 
on of an evening in the stable, and walk four miles 
just to hear about it. It was this fact that made his 
mother think that there was something in it. Then 
Aleck had also a fine Turkey red tie with blue dia- 
monds on it, deadly up to fifty paces — a tie so bril- 
liant that it gave one sunspots in the eyes to look at 
it long. This was most useful in the darkened byre, 
when Nance laid her cheek on Crumbie’s rough 
hide, and looked at him with one of those glances 
which made his veins run something of the nature 
of molten metal, while he stood solemnly plaiting 
Crumbie’s tail, and wondering what there was about 
the lass to make him go hot and cold like that. 
So hi§ father’s taunt made his cheek fiame as 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


I3« 

though the slow winter’s sun were already rising un- 
timely. 

Aleck murmured that he would go and see that the 
sheep were all safe, and without further word from 
his father he turned the corner of the house, and 
was still more astonished to see his mother walking 
a few steps, then bending down, as if looking for 
something she had lost, in the corner of the little 
plantation. Aleck loved his mother, and if she had 
any favorites among her sons, Aleck, in spite of the 
matter of Nether Neuk, was that one. He went 
over to his mother, and said : 

What are ye seekin’ there 

Mary M’Quhirr started up as though detected in 
something disgraceful. 

“ Seekin’ ? What wad I be seekin’ ? I’m nae 
nicht-hawk. I’m up betimes in the mornin’ an’ at 
my wa^k. \e hae been attendin’ to yours nae 
doot. Ye’ll hae the ‘horse’ dune, an’ the nowt 
foddered and the sheep lookit — an’ noo ye’ll be 
giein’ a bit look roon’ the steadin’ to see gin ither 
fowk are a’ at their wark ? It’s a graun thing to hae 
an eident lad aboot the place. Ay, it is that !” 

Aleck stood aghast. What had come to all the 
folks since last night ? A light broke on him. 

“Has Rab no’ come in ?” he asked. 

Rab slept in the other end of the garret from 
Aleck, and even if he had occupied the same sleep- 
ing-room Aleck usually dressed in the dark, mini- 
mizing trouble and the chance of being called to 
account for tardiness at the same time. His mother 
answered tartly : 

“ Rab’s sleepin' in his ain bed, puir falla’; dinna 


THE MOHNING AFTER. 


139 


ye be gaim clamperin’ in wi’ yer muckle tackety 
boots. Gang- an’ see gin there’s nocht that ye can 
turn yer haun to !” 

This was still more unexpected. Rab in bed, his 
father not to be spoken to, and his mother snapping 
his head off and in the same breath calling the of- 
fender of the night before “ Puir falla’ !” It passed 
comprehension. 

“ Weel,” thought Aleck to himself, “ they needna 
a’ knock me doon an’ kick me for fa’in’.” 

But he did not say so — only turned and walked 
away without a word, well aware that in a little his 
mother’s heart would smite her for her injustice, 
and counting on quite a number of indulgences in 
consequence. Aleck had some of the elements of 
diplomacy. As he walked sedately away, his con- 
clusion was that his father had gone out after all, 
given Rob his promised thrashing, an^, that his 
mother had “ cast oot ” with his father oh" that ac- 
count. This was his interpretation of the whole 
state of the case. He was at once satisfied and con- 
temptuous. 

“ A most michty fuss to mak’ aboot a lickin’ !” he 
said, with some indignation. 

He would remonstrate with Rab. 

Morning had now broken fully, and the winter 
sun was rising over the ridge of Ben Gairn far to 
the south when Wattie came to the door. He 
wanted to go with Aleck to feed the titrnip sheep. 
He liked to turn the handle, and hear the turnips 
go “ craunch, craunch ” in the filler, and watch the 
crisp finger-lengths of white turnip fall into the 
trough. So having secured his friend Aleck’s 


140 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


goodwill by his obvious good temper (a rare thing 
that morning, Aleck thought) the two marched off 
to the turnip pits. It was cold work clearing the 
snow from the long-backed, turf-covered mounds, 
where the Swedes lay sleeping safe from the frost. 
Their fingers were tingling with cold before they 
had got the mouth of the pit clear, but they had 
not been working long before the blood came back 
with such vigor that Wattie thought that it was 
even worse than the cold. He did not make any 
complaint, for was not he going to be a Galloway 
herd, and tramp over the moors with two collies, 
knitting a stocking and smoking a pipe all at the 
same time, just like John Scott; the herd ? He 
must, therefore, learn to be manly, so he worked 
in such a way as to deserve and receive the com- 
mendation of Aleck. 

“ Ye’ll do !” said that worthy, emphatically, and 
his tone was equal to the Victoria Cross in Walter’s 
estimation. 

The sheep came shouldering and pushing along 
the troughs ; some stood stolidly feeding at one 
place till all within their reach was exhausted. 
Others kept nosing their neighbors, drawing them- 
selves out of the poverty-stricken localities, and 
driving themselves wedge-like into places which 
looked more promising. Donald, the pet, had 
come along to help. He did not think much of 
turnips, but he liked to pose among the other 
sheep of low degree as the Czar of all the turnip 
fields, owing equal sway over black-face and cross- 
bred. Donald was nothing if not pugnacious. He 
would put his stubborn head down, and, drawing 


THE MORNING AFTER. 


141 


himself off half a bowshot, charge blindly home, 
clearing a whole side at one swoop. He was the 
Rupert of the turnip trough. 

On returning to the homestead they had break- 
fast together, Walter going “ ben the hoose ” to 
have it with his mother, Saunders, and Mary. The 
eyes of the master and mistress of Drumquhat met 
over the table with a glance of understanding and 
sympathy. Then they looked at the face of their 
house-sojourner with a look of great compassion. 
It was still and peaceful as a hill tarn. She knew 
nothing of the fearsome thing that had gone 
round the house and round the house, and which 
would have come within the house, but for the 
watchfulness of the despised Rab. Rab himself 
came down with a headache that was something to 
boast of ; but then they did not boast of headaches 
at Drumquhat, or make invalid capital out of 
them. They were ashamed of them, so Rab said 
nothing about his. Only he occasionally felt his 
skull cautiously all over when no one was looking, 
to see if he could find any hole in it. He was not 
successful, so he went out to the yard and stuck it 
into a snow bank to cool it. This went much bet- 
ter. While he was doing so Aleck came out, and, 
seeing his brother in this most peculiar position, 
and remembering the snowball which Rab had put 
into his mouth the night before, he hastily com- 
pacted a dense globe of snow, and caused it to take 
effect on Rab’s broad corduroys with the sound of 
a paper bag bursting at a soiree. Rab instantly 
withdrew his head in pain and anger. He had 
stood a good deal the night before, and he was not 


142 


A GALLOWAY" HERD. 


going to stand any more in the morning. He 
saw no one but Walter, who was laughing and 
chuckling at the far corner by the milk-house. 
Aleck had dropped flat into one of the deep snow 
passages. Rab was not to be baulked of his 
revenge on somebody, and without stopping to 
reflect that it was impossible for Walter to throw 
so well-considered a ball half that distance, he let 
fly a missile which took effect smartly on the child’s 
cheek, and caused him to retire rapidly on his 
reserves in the milk-house where his “ gran ” was 
attending to the butter. 

That good lady instantly came out, and seeing no 
one in sight, for Rab having dropped even as Aleck, 
she vented her anger on the empty air, and upon 
all within hearing, though out of sight, whom it 
might concern. 

“Ye great big guid-for-naethin’ sumphs. I’ll get 
yer faither to ye wi’ a stick. Hae ye naething bet- 
ter to dae than mak’ the bit bairn greet wi’ yer 
snawba’s. Dinna think that I canna see ye — I see ye 
brawly, and gin ye dinna come oot I’ll come efter 
ye mysel’. Think shame on yersels !” 

Which Rab and Aleck did, for the position of ly- 
ing prone in a snowbank is not one which makes for 
self-respect. Both these worthies endeavored to 
crawl carefully along the snow passages which they 
had excavated without letting their mother see 
them ; and at the corner opposite the “ swinehouse ” 
they knocked their heads together, glared at each 
other, then promptly clinched and fought a good 
tussle in the snow, till a horse whip in the vigorous 
hands of their father was laid impartially about 


THE MOENING AFTER. 


143 


their ears. Saunders g'ave them a word or two for 
wasting their time ; but, not having heard what 
went before, he knew of nothing worse than a rough 
and tumble such as healthy country lads are always 
indulging in, which Saunders did not object to so 
long as they kept such little “ploys” out of his 
sight. 

In a little while Aleck brought the now pacified 
Wattie round to the gable end of the barn and told 
him to creep through one of the wickets which led 
into his impregnable fortress behind the big corn 
mow. As soon as Wattie was safely there, Aleck 
handed him two balls made of somewhat slushy 
snow, with the pregnant advice : 

“ Noo, see ye dinna miss !” 

Then stepping to the corner he called loudly, 
“ Rab !” 

Very unsuspecting, that youth came round the 
gable of the barn, and stood directly opposite 
Walter’s wicket. There was a broad smile on his 
boyish face. His headache was gone, and he had 
got the better of his brother. He paused to enjoy 
the situation. There came a sound like an egg 
breaking, and the jovial countenance was distorted 
with quite other feelings. Rob was dancing round 
on the points of his toes, trying to excavate the wet 
snow out of his ear with his little finger, while Aleck 
and Wattie exhausted themselves with uproarious 
laughter. 


144 


A GALLOWAY HEKD. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

THE CHRYSTIES OF NETHER NEUK. 

Nether Neuk was a much larger farm than 
Drumquhat, and sat on the bare crown of the 
moorland just where it began to break into culti- 
vated fields and feather with birch and larch along 
the water-courses. There were other solid attrac- 
tions about Nether Neuk besides its garland of fair 
daughters. It was a farm that kept three pair of 
horse, and as Nether Neuk was blessed as exclu- 
sively with daughters as Drumquhat with sons, 
there were consequently three “ ploomen,” all of 
whom took their meat in the kitchen, and two or 
three “ oot-bye lasses,” or girls who did the rough 
work of the byre and the fields. But the Nether 
Neuk daughters were no idlers. They were well 
kenned for clever-handed, ihrough-gaun lasses. 
Their mother had died when they were young, and 
when they were quite woman grown their father 
had married his housekeeper, erst dairymaid, 
Clemmy Kilpatrick. She was not much older than 
the eldest of the girls, and was kept in a proper 
state of control by all of them. The four girls were 
Liza, Grace, Nance, and the “ Hempy,” who was a 
wild, coltish, tangle-haired girl of fifteen, who rode 
barebacked, and sometimes, it was whispered, 
astride. These four were as one against any com- 
mon foe, though their internecine warfare was end- 
less. Nance had but recently left off bare-back 


THE CHKYSTIES OF NETHER NEUK. I45 

riding, scampering barefoot over the meadows, and 
generally carrying on like a wild thing. She was 
therefore both able and willing to rebuke the 
“ Hempy.” She had a fit of demureness at present 
which some benighted people mistook for shyness. 
But, as the Deeside guidwives said, shyness and 
Nance Chrystie might be wed, for they were naught 
akin. This was the opinion of the knowing ones, 
but such was not the opinion of Mr. Alexander 
M’Quhirr, Younger of Drumquhat, nor, indeed, of 
any of the young callants, whose readiness to hold 
the cow’s tail in the byre and keep their sheep’s 
eyes on the Nether Neuk pew was a scandal to all 
the douce neighbors. 

Peter Chrystie of Nether Neuk was what is known 
as a “ character.” A keen hand at a bargain and a 
good attendant at the church, he was a noble pillar 
of the plate in a land dry and thirsty from scarcity 
of elders. He has been known to lean over the 
gathering coppers to his fellow-elder, with a face 
still and solemn like a hill-country communion, and 
say : I’ll tak’ twunty-twa for thae yowes, an diel a 
farthing less !” His fellow-elder is our authority 
for this. The congregation thought that the two 
were in high spiritual communication. But for all 
that Hutton of Harbishaw bought the yowes. The 
price was twenty-two shillings. He thought it was 
a shilling too dear, so he told the story to be upsides 
with Peter of Nether Nuik. Peter, when he heard 
it, remarked that the story was an unqualified false- 
hood. This was the gist of his words. The verba- 
tim report has happily not been preserved. 

Peter had a herd named Rab An’erson. It is a 


146 A GALLOWAY HERD. 

common country name. “Are there any Christians 
here away ?” asked of a herd laddie an itinerant 
preacher. “ Na, na,” was the instant reply, “ we’re 
a’ An’ersons an’ Douglases here !” Rab An’er- 
son was at once the plague and the occupation of 
Peter Chrystie’s life. He had dismissed him for a 
good-for-nothing time and time again. Whereupon 
Rab, no ways disconcerted, would lie in bed in his 
cot-house for a day or two, his ragged children and 
slatternly wife making furtive visits to the back- 
door of the farmhouse to bring away platefuls of 
provisions from the kindly hands of the second mis- 
tress of the house, Clem my Kilpatrick, the ex-dairy- 
maid, who had worked alongside of her in the old 
days before Peter took her into the farmhouse to 
wash and dress his tow-headed lasses. About the 
third day Peter would come to the door of the cot, 
and without pausing to knock, force his way in ; 
and with a stout hazel rung lay on heartily on the 
slumbering hulk of the giant in bed, accompanying 
the exercise with such excogitations as the follow- 
ing : 

“Ye great muckle fushionless sumph (whack) ! 
tak’ that (whack, whack), lyin’ in yer naked bed 
when ither fowk are daein’ yer wark (thump). D’ye 
think I hae nocht better to do (whack) than come 
plowterin’ efter you (whack, thump), ye thrawn- 
faced, lazy-baned haythen ye !” Peter here discov- 
ering that his blows have only been taking effect on 
a judiciously arranged pillow, shifts his hold upon 
his stick, and tries new ground. The first attempt 
is successful. “ Ye menseless hound (whack, “ Ow, 
ow !”), howkin’ here in yer bed when the sheep are 


THE CHRYSTIES OF NETHER NEUK. I47 

whammlin’ in the moss-hags an’ fa’in’ oval by the 
score.” 

“ Ow, ow, ow ! maister, hae dune !” 

“ Hae dune wi’ the like o’ ye, Rab An’erson ; I’se 
no’ hae dune wi’ ye till I hae braken ilka bane i’ the 
muckle cauf’s body o’ ye !” 

The scene ended some time after in the pacifica- 
tion of master and man, and this strange herd stayed 
on to be his master’s daily labor. Some one asked 
Nance Chrystie if her father did much work now. 
She said that he did — he labored daily at Rab An- 
derson. There was no day in all the three hundred 
and sixty-five whereon Peter Chrystie’s thin, 
cracked voice would not have been heard, going 
before him about the farm offices or over the moor, 
with an eldrich cry of “ Saw ye ocht o’ Rab An’er- 
son, lazy taed ? Saw ye ocht o’ Rob An’erson, 
lazy taed ?” Peter was a man who had the 
reputation of being both sly and pawky. He had 
one peculiarity which made him cordially detested 
by his farm servants. He had once had the pecu- 
liarities of a good field glass pointed out to him by 
a Cairn Edward watchmaker when he was in get- 
ting a new glass on his ancient domed verge watch. 
Peter at once saw its capacities in application to 
farm work where there are three ploughmen as well 
as many out-workers. For some time after its ac- 
quisition the farm hinds could not understand how 
it was that “ the maister ” was sure to come over the 
hill just when they were having a friendly “ tove ” 
with a game-watcher, or where “ ca’in’ the crack,” 
with a neighbor lass passing along the footpath at 
the bottom of the field ; or how it was that when they 


148 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


left their horses for a moment standing in the con- 
venient hollow behind the dyke, and were just set- 
tled down to the refreshing draw at the “ cutty,” 
which had been lying ready charged in their waist- 
coat pocket since morning, “ Peepin’ Peter ” should 
look over the dyke and threaten them with all 
manner of pains and penalties for their idleness. 
Peter was not popnlar among his neighbors on this 
same account, either. It is a strange and uncanny 
thing when at kirk and market your neighbor across 
the glen can give you more accurate and private in- 
formation about the ongoings at your house than 
you possess yourself. It conveys a sense of having 
done wrong to the most innocent. Peter was far 
from being a popular character, except with Rab 
An’erson, his giant shepherd. Many a fight Rab 
had fought in defence of his master’s good name 
when the callants gathered in the gloaming about 
the smiddy fire, or, later, on the green in front of the 
” Deeside Airms.” 

“ I’ll let nae man misca’ my maister in my pres- 
ence,” Rab would say. “ Quid kens. I’m nae pro- 
fessor, an’ I haena come forrit for twenty year,* but 
I ken what’s richt an’ what’s wrang, an’ Peter Chrys- 
tie o’ the Neuk has been a better maister to me than 
onybody has a richt to expec’ !” 

“ Hoo aboot that last threshin’ ye got, Rab ?” the 
wag of the party would ask. 

“ Gin mair o’ ye gat yer paiks afener, it wad be 
tellin’ ye on the judgment day,” answered Rab, 
pertinently. “ Your maisters disna half do their 
bunden duty by ye.” 

* Partaken of the communion. 


THE CHRYSTIES OF NETHER NEUK. 1 49 

“ I wad like to see Nether Neiik or ony ither man 
lay a haun’ on me,” a sturdy young ploughman 
would say ; “ I wad thraw his neck like a corbie !” 

“ Gin ye did yer wark as I dinna do mine (more 
shame to me !) ye wad get neyther word nor daud 
at Nether Neiik. Na, ‘ licks for lazy banes,’ that’s 
my maister’s owerword !” 

“ Did ye hear what he said to young Semple o’ the 
Sypland ?” said the smith, who was a privileged per- 
son whom even Rab An’erson with four glasses in 
him did not stop in his words. He had once tried, 
but the smith, with a hot iron in one hand held close 
to Rab’s face, had knocked him over an anvil with 
the other, and then calmly gone on with his ham- 
mering — “ Clink, clank, clinkum, clankum !” with- 
out deigning a glance as the prostrate giant picked 
himself up. 

The assembled smiddy paused for the smith’s 
words of wisdom. 

He spied young Semple cornin’ ower the Heather 
Knowe o’ the Airie with his coortin’ claes on — new 
Wellington buits that jirgit like a dry cairt wheel, 
shiny wristbands, an’ a Glengarry bonnet cockin’ on 
his heid wi’ a muirfowl's feather in it. Peter had 
his bit object glass, an’ syne he slippit oot an’ awa’ 
up the dyke side, kind o’ cooryin’ till he meets wi’ 
my gentleman. 

‘‘ ‘ Guid e’en to ye,’ says Peter. 

“ ‘ It’s a fine nicht, Maister Chrystie,’ says Semple 
in his London mainner, michty politefu’. 

** ‘ Ye’ll be gaun bye up the hill to the Upper 
Neuk, nae doot ?” says Peter. 

“ ‘ W’eel, no,’ said the young ‘ Pernicketie,’ ‘ I was 


150 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


thinkin’ o’ garni to yer ain hoose, Maister Chrystie.’ 

“ ‘ Ay, an’ wha bade ye there gin I micht mak’ as 
bauld as speir ?’ 

“‘Ahem!’ says my gleg callant, gettin’ geyan 
red aboot the gills, an’ hummin’ an’ hawin’ to get 
time to think ; ‘ the fact is, I was speakin’ to Miss 
Elizabeth on Sunday at the kirk, an’ she — ’ 

“ ‘ When Liza Chrystie gets on for mistress o’ 
Nether Neuk I’ll let ye ken, Maister Semple,’ he 
says. ‘ Guid-e’en to ye.’ ” 

***** 

“ Na,” said Rab An’erson, quite simply, “ ye 
see, young Semple is but the third son, an’ he’ll no’ 
get the ferm. He’ll hae nae gear an’ plenishin’ — 
nocht ava but his wages as a coonter-louper.” 

“ See ye onything o’ thae deil’s bairns, Sawny 
Bean’s crew, that leeves ower by you ?” the smith 
went on. “ Whatever for does your maister harbor 
siccan a scum o’ the creation ? It’s mair than I can 
imagine. He should hae pu’ed doun the rotten 
thack aboot their lugs lang syne. Nae guid wull 
come to the neeborhood by harborin’ a vermin like 
them. They’re rale descendants o’ the auld Sawny 
Bean that leeved doon by the Piper’s Cove at the 
Douglas Ha’.” 

“ Ay, an’ wha was he ?” asked Rab of the smith, 
who was both a reader and archaeologist to the 
parish. 

The smith was nowise loath to tell the tale. 

“ Did ye never hear o’ Sawny Bean, the first o’ 
that name ? He was a braw lad. He took a wife 
like himsel’ and they leeved doon in the rocks aboot 


THE CriKYSTIES OF NETHER NEUK. I5I 

Portowarren like wild folk. They reared sons and 
dochters, an’ they likewise mustered an’ bred, till 
the place gat sic a name that naebody wad gang 
near. Merchants an’ gaugers, packmen an’ gaun 
bodies — a’ slippit awa’ an’ were nae mair heard tell 
o’. 

“ Fowk thocht that the deil was walkin’ the 
country. The fear took haud o’ a’ fowk by the 
throat, till yae nicht there was a wild woman, a’ 
ower bluid an’ bruises, cam’ linkin’ in to Dumfries 
wi’ skellock on skellock, an’ when she cam’ to hersel’ 
it was a fearsome tale she had to tell. Doon on the 
New Abbey road a tribe o’ wild folk had come on her, 
and her man, an’ twa-three ithers, and pu’ed them 
aff their horses, an’ cuttit their throats ; but her 
horse had taen fricht and ran awa’, an’ a’ nicht the 
crew had chased her wi’ horrid imprecations, till 
her horse fell an’ brak its neck-bane on Maxwelton 
braes, an’ she was a deid woman had she no’ faa’n 
on wi’ some Gallawa’ herds cornin’ to Dumfries 
tryst. There was siccan a rinniti’ an’ siccan a cryin’ 
in Dumfries as hadna been since Bruce killed 
the Red Comyn in the Grey friars. A great com- 
pany followed the trail on horseback wi’ blood- 
hounds. They fand the place by the fit-marks an’ 
reed blood, an’ the dowgs took up the trail an’ 
brocht them to the cave’s mouth. In they gaed 
through scores o’ hams an’ ither things hung frae the 
ceilin’ — fearsome things that they lookit nae mair 
at after the first glisk at them. An’ at the far end 
they fand thretty or forty of the cannibals, an’ them 
they took oot for a brisk trial an’ a shorter shrift. 
As sune as thretty halters could be gotten they 


152 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


were a’ hung up for the gleds an’ the craws, an’ a’ 
the puir relics o’ humanity that they had pickled an’ 
sautit, an’ smokit were taen to the kirkyaird o’ New 
Abbey an’ decently laid under the sod.” 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

“ SAWNY ” BEAN. 

There was silence in the smiddy after the smith’s 
tale. 

“ Save us, that’s a fearsome story !” said Rab 
An’erson. “ D’ye think it’s true ?” 

“ Ay, it’s ower true,” said the smith ; “ but I mis- 
doot that they maun hae missed some o’ the crew, 
an’ that some o’ the clan hae gotten a settlement 
doon by the Black Shaws on the grun’ o’ yer ain 
maister, Peter Chrystie o’ the Nether Neuk !” 

His name was Bean — of that he was sure. But 
as he was not a Christian he took no stock in 
Christian names. The neighborhood called him 
“ Sawny,” impelled thereto by the gruesome stories 
told by the smith. The Bean family lived in a lean- 
to hovel under the Hanging Shaw, just where the 
steep Nether Neuk Bank breaks in cliff from the 
open plateau of the moorland towards the water 
edge. The Shaw was pitted with caverns, against 
the mouth of one of which “ Sawny ” Beaji had 
built his house. He had built it with his owa hands, 


“ SAWNY BEAN. I 53 

and the stones of the front and side walls were the 
ordinary gray stones which the farmers built into 
their dykes. Sawny cemented it roughly with lime, 
begged, borrowed or stolen (but chiefly the latter), 
and with sand brought up from the lockside on the 
back of his wife. No one knew the mysterious 
name of the partner of Sawny Bean’s joys and 
sorrows. He rarely addressed her directly, save to 
give a plain, unadorned command. 

“ Where have you put that ugly tyke o’ yours 
Peter Chrystie would ask Sawny. 

“What do I ken; speak to that!" he would 
answer, indicating his wife with his forefinger. 

His word of tenderness was “ You !” 

“You, there! pit on the pot!” he would most 
often say, accompanying the order with a missile 
which his wife as instinctively avoided. 

These things were too common to cause remark on 
either side. She generally had some part of her 
person tied up owing to her husband’s tender 
attentions. Sometimes she would take her bruises 
to Nance Chrystie, to whom she was attached 
because she was the only soul of her own sex who 
was not afraid to come within gunshot of the dread- 
ful house under the Hanging Shaw. Nance rubbed 
her wounds with butter and whisky, and counselled 
the poor slave to strike back, while the patient 
regarded her with wide, vague eyes of adoration ; 
but she was far from having Nance’s spirit. 

It was generally supposed on Deeside that old 
Peter Chrystie had some very good reason for har- 
boring such vermin on his farm. He was supposed 
to be paying blackmail for some of the sports of his 


154 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


youth. Sawny Bean called himself a laborer, but 
no one ever saw him do more serious labor than 
making wicker baskets and twining rabbit “ grins.” 
It was universally agreed that poaching was the 
honestest part of Sawny’s work. And he was not 
thought much the worse for it in that part of the 
country, where contempt of the game laws is taken 
into the system in early youth along with the 
“ Mother’s Questions.” But there were dark whis- 
pers afloat that set various burglaries, minor and 
major, petty larcenies of hens and ducks, and even 
the crowning iniquity of sheep-stealing to the dis- 
credit of the master of “ Sawny Bean’s Hole.” 

Sawny had a tribe of children running about his 
door, so close to one another in age and size that 
they seemed to overlap each other like the eaves of 
a house. He was said to have stolen some of them, 
but the accusation disproved itself, for it was un- 
likely that Sawny would willingly add another to 
the hungry mouths about his dwelling. It was much 
more likely that sundry children of misadventure 
and sin had been, for due consideration received, 
added to Sawny’s flock, for he had too many iniqui- 
ties on his head to feel a dozen or so to be any 
additional burden. 

Minister and elder passed him by. The 
Cameronian minister had made one brave attempt 
on him ; but Sawny had assumed his most idiotic 
expression and mumped unintelligible sounds, so 
that the minister had passed on, commending him 
to God as one mentally afflicted. It was not gen- 
erally known that at the back Sawny’s house abut- 
ted upon an old sand-hole, while above the birches 


“ SAWNY ” BEAN. I 55 

and alders of the Hanging Shaw feathering the steep 
slope almost wholly concealed the space. Here 
there was a most extraordinary collection of mis- 
cellaneous rubbish ; and had the farmers of the 
neighborhood had any idea of the number of things 
lifted from their several farms they would long ago 
have organized a raid and pulled Sawny’s rickety 
erections about his ears. But things about a farm 
have a way of disappearing temporarily and turn- 
ing up again unexpectedly after months or years ; 
so most of the farmers simply grumbled or swore, 
according to their kind, and blamed the careless- 
ness of the men for their losses. Here were, 
among a debris of miscellaneous articles, coulters of 
all sizes, “ shilbins,” or cart rails of manifold design, 
corn feed dishes, bushel measures, luggies (milking 
pails), harrow teeth, a deer horn mounted on a 
plate and with an inscription (from the big hoose, 
wandered off by itself at the spring cleaning). 
Deeper in the cavern at the back of the sand-hole 
were barrels, most of them containing dogs of high 
and low degree. These had all of them “ followed 
a gentleman,” as the advertisements say. Gener- 
ally they followed Sawny with their feet braced 
against the road, while that kindly gentleman ap- 
plied the leverage of compulsion by means of a 
rope over his shoulder, and encircling their necks. 
Sawny had an interest in letters, at least as far as 
the weekly Cairn Edward paper was concerned. He 
went over regularly to Nether Neuk on the evening 
of the day on which it arrived, and got Peter 
Chrystie to read him out the first column of the 
advertisements. Then if there were any dogs lost. 


156 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


which were thought worth an advertisement, Sawny 
would turn up at the place indicated with the 
animal in tow, and a pausible tale, but if no adver- 
tisement appeared within three weeks at the latest, 
there was a plunge in the loch some dark night and 
an empty barrel “ to let ” in the cave. Sawny was 
never in any danger of starvation, nor, to do him 
justice, were the towsy children who tumbled over 
each other in front of his door. Many an honest 
man’s children went with empty bellies when 
Sawny’s surrounded a well-stocked broth-pot. He 
believed in the good old monkish plan commemor- 
ated in the ballad verse : — 

“ The monks of Melrose made guid kail 
On Friday’s when they fasted ; 

Nor wanted they guid beef and ale 
As lang as their neighbors' lasted." 

There were few things to which Sawny would not 
turn his hand, except honest labor. An outcast by 
birth and training, his war with society was very 
real, though as yet it had never been a very deadly 
one. Sawny had, it is true, no abrupt line of dis- 
tinction between the acts which he was prepared to 
commit and those which he could not risk. But he 
had that kind of animal cunning which generally 
kept him without the operation of the civil arm, 
though hardly ever for a single day of his life 
wholly within the law. He accounted it, for in- 
stance, perfectly righteous to shoot a “ gamey ” or 
“ salmon-watcher,” who was, if possible, a degree 
more vile in his eyes ; but having once travelled to 


SAWNY ” BEAN. 


157 


Dumfries to see an execution, almost the last that 
was ever held there in public, he returned home 
with an odd feeling of constriction about his Adam’s 
apple, and a resolve like adamant not to trouble the 
hangman. It struck him that it would be a de- 
cidedly uncomfortable thing to be hanged so early 
in the morning. Sawny liked to lie long in bed, 
and in the good poaching seasons he kept decidedly 
fashionable hours. Really, he was in little danger 
of capture, though many a trap was laid for him. 
He had the native instinct of woodcraft. Eyes and 
ears were born with him which enabled him to hear 
and see things silent and black to commoner organs. 
As the spectroscope tells us that we do not see the 
whole chord of colors in a rainbow, the ultra-violet 
being too delicate for our eyes to observe, so Sawny 
Bean, with his ear to the ground, became a wild 
animal of the wood — every nerve strung, every 
sense delicate and refined to perceive what others 
could not. Had his life been cast in a city he might 
have become with his criminal instincts the greatest 
of criminals. Probably the Whitechapel fiend is 
just such a man with, in addition, an appetite for 
blood and a knowledge of city life corresponding to 
Sawny ’s accurate interpretation of the sights and 
sounds of the wood and moor. 

The policeman on his tours did not make Sawny’s 
house one of his houses of call. He had gone once 
only, to find the house locked and deserted. Em- 
boldened by the silence, he had clumped heavily 
round the corner of the house to spy out the land, 
but as he turned he laid his hand accidentally on 
something hard and cold which protruded from a 


158 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


small hole in the wall. He stooped down to exam- 
ine, and his eye looked fair down the muzzle of a 
smoke-blackened double-barrelled gun. He fell 
back as though the gun had gone off and the shot had 
struck him, while from the tree tops, from the rocks 
of the Hanging Shaw, and apparently out of the 
earth, there came mocking laughter and bird-like 
calls. Slowly the officer of the law erected himself 
and cautiously withdrew, his dignity and his clear 
buttons both a trifle dulled. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

THE DOUBLE TRAITOR. 

Since the telegram of Felix Durand had brought 
Herbert Peyton north to the wilds of Galloway, he 
had been lurking in the neighborhood. It was a 
slack time with him in his profession. French by 
education, child of the asphalte and the coulisses of 
Paris, though of English blood, Herbert Peyton had 
drifted into that most dangerous though most 
lucrative of occupations — that of the spy who makes 
capital from both sides out of his secrets. The 
pasteboard Napoleon who at that time ruled the 
destinies of France liked to believe that the secrets 
of the world were poured into his ear, and that he 
had his spies at the council boards of the revolu- 
tionary societies of all European nations. His chief 
of secret police found Herbert Peyton, with his 


THE DOUBLE TRAITOK. 


159 


accurate and extensive knowledge of dramatic 
circles and his polyglot unscrupulousness a tool fit 
for his hand. Peyton had been brought up among 
the men of “ ’48,” and had enjoyed their confidence 
after they had to flee from the rigor of the new 
empire. Of all these men, Felix Durand had been 
the greatest political force. An orator, he could 
fire his countrymen, and his words were like sparks. 
He had also a magnetic power over men. It was 
his influence and the fear of a quick and sure dagger 
that kept Peyton in any degree true to the Revolu- 
tionary Committee. He had seen one of his com- 
panions lie in the Morgue, turned over on his back, 
with an ugly ooze welling out of a hole in his side. 
Felix had taken him in to see it, and had silently 
pointed. Herbert Peyton had not forgotten the 
lesson. So, though he played a double game, betray- 
ing as much as he dared to the secret police of the 
empire, he brought back a good deal more in return 
to the camp of the patriots. It was a dangerous 
amusement, and it needed a strong and an adroit 
man to play it, and this man was both. 

He had come to the north without definite 
purposes of malice. He desired to be revenged on 
the woman who had scorned him and wounded him. 
Felix, it was true, was her protector, and it would 
not do openly to break with him. But though it 
would be too dangerous to molest the mother, he 
might be able to show Felix cause why the same 
protection need not apply to the son. At any rate, 
it was obviously feasible to strike and wound most 
deeply through the lad. This had been the explana- 
tion of his stealthy night visit to Drumquhat, which 


i6o 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


had been foiled through the wakefulness of Rab 
M’Quhirr. But he saw his way to a better plan, 
and he looked to Sawny Bean to help him to carry 
it out. Sawny’s reputation and his sandhold cavern 
seemed strong strategic positions which would make 
for the success of his design. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

A MISSION TO THE CROWS. 

It was once again the summer at Drumquhat. 
The birds were building all about — the starlings in 
the knotholes of the great beech at the end of the 
stackyard, the swallows under the eaves of the out- 
houses. The hedge-sparrows and robins were quar- 
relling by every hedgerow, and making the road- 
sides pugnacious with their feather-scattering 
scufflings. The sand-martins were darting out and 
in their burrows in the face of Sandy Bean’s sand- 
hole. One blithe May afternoon there was com- 
pany at Drumquhat, as indeed you might have seen 
long before you got there, by the panelled front 
door being open, and the mistress of the farm occa- 
sionally at it, with her black lace cap on. She 
scanned the fields, putting her hand to her brow 
and looking down the sunshine. Felix Durand had 
come over from Deeside, and was in the parlor, and 
Mistress M’Quhirr wondered a hundred times what 
had come over her man. 


A MISSION TO THE CROWS. l6l 

“ I never saw the marrow o’ him,” she said, “ gin 
there was nae call for him to be in for his tea, he 
wad be trailin’ in on the back o’ three, askin’ gin it 
wasna tea time yet, though his denner had had nae 
mair than time to settle. He pretends he disna care 
for his tea, but did ye ever see a man body yet that 
wasna as contrairy as a swine on a bleachin’ 
green !” 

This she delivered at large to whom it might con- 
cern. Nelly Anderson looked with an amused smile 
over to Felix Durand, who was sitting on the shiny 
horesehair sofa which was one of the gods of Mis- 
tress M’Quhirr’s idolatry. Nelly had never become 
quite accustomed to seeing him there. He seemed 
to connect with so many things in her early tempest- 
uous years. But after she had seen him with the 
ready tact of the citizen of many countries who was 
yet the patriot of one, partake of the Drumquhat 
scones and the Drumquhat tea a time or two from 
the special “ company cups,” she gradually became 
more reconciled. 

“ Come away in,” she said to the irate lady of the 
house, who was fussing about with ruffled plumes 
like a setting hen put off her nest eggs. “ Saunders 
will come in at his usual time. It’s half an hour to 
that time now.” 

“ Na, come he’ll no’ — never when he could be ony 
use, there never was a mair aggrevatin’ man than 
mine — no’ atween Solway an’ the Cruives o’ Cree !” 

At this moment a heavy foot was heard coming 
craunching along the causeway cobbles in front of 
the house. A shrill voice kept up an incessant chat- 
ter, and a gruffer monosyllable broke in occasion- 


A GALLOWAY HEED. 


162 

ally. Nelly Anderson stirred expectantly. It was 
the brisk patter of interrogation that brought the 
rose into her cheek and the violet softness into her 
eye. There never was such a boy as hers, she 
thought, and indeed Mary M’Quhirr agreed with 
her. But for his frank, honest nature the boy was 
in a fair way of being spoiled. 

Saunders and Wattie entered. Grave greeting 
from the former, turbulent rejoicing from the latter 
— the chairs were drawn round the table and a rev- 
erent grace said, to which Felix bowed his head as 
humbly as though he had been brought up a true 
Cameronian on the Galloway uplands. Genuine 
reverence recognizes its fellow all the world over. 
The mistress was so pleased that she almost forgot 
to give Saunders his “ paiks.” 

“ What keepit ye sae lang, Saunders ?’* she in- 
quired. 

“ Ask the laddie said her husband, smiling. 

“ We war lookin’ for a peewheet’s nest at the back 
o* the Craigs,” said Wattie. “ The peewheet cheated 
us twice, but we fand it the third time. There was 
twa eggs but nae nest !” 

Did ye bring them hame for a fry ?” inquired 
the practical dame. 

“ Na, I couldna think to tak' the puir birdie’s 
eggs,” said Wattie, shaking his head sadly, “ and 
forbye, they war verra likely half-clockit (hatched).” 

“ Bravo !” laughed Felix Durand, “ there spoke 
the Scotsman. An Englishman would hav^e taken 
them and seen how they turned out. A French- 
man would have taken all the credit of the senti- 
ment if he had left them alone, but the Scotsman 


A MISSION TO THE CROWS. 


163 


has his sentiment based on common sense. No 
wonder you rule the world, you Scots ; some nations 
have sentiment and others practicality, but you have 
both.” 

‘‘ Ay,” said Saunders, “ ye see there’s a feck o’ 
poetry in lookin’ on the hills, as the Psalmist said, 
but unless the hills feed the sheep, whaur’s the rent 
to come frae, an’ the plenishin’ for the meal ark, an’ 
the 00’ for the blankets, an’ the grey hamespun for 
oor backs ?” 

“That is true,” said Felix Durand, leaning back 
till his white hair hung over the back of the sofa, 
to the admiration of Nelly Anderson, who often 
watched him like a daughter. “ I never can make 
out whether you Scots have made your country 
what it is, or whether it has made you ?” 

“ I think God made the two of us for each other,” 
said Saunders, simply. “ Ye see, sir, it’s like this. 
He sees that it’s guid for man to be eident [diligent], 
an’ when langsyne He made a peculiar people for 
Himsel’, He set them to mak’ the best o’ a Ian’ wi’ 
routh o’ milk an’ honey, maybe ; but gye stany for 
craps an’ michty hilly an’ dry as I’ve been gien to 
unnerstan’. Maist like a dry Gallawa’ where the 
inhabitants were a’ Sawny Beans. Though yon 
Ephron the Hittite was none sic a bad neebor, ony 
wye ye tak’ him — him that Abraham bocht the 
cave o’ Macpelah frae. But a’ his kin maun hae 
dee’t oot, I’m thinkin’, afore Joshua cam’ — ” 

“ Hae anither cup, Saunders,” broke in his wife 
practically, to moderate his flow. When Saunders 
got among the patriarchs there was no telling 
Wh^re he might end, or when, But Saunders wag 


164 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


far too keen on his subject to be thus turned aside, 
Felix composed himself to listen. He loved to hear 
the not irreverent familiarity of the old Cameronian 
with the great folk of the Bible history. It was a 
new world to him whose life had been spent among 
Voltairean unbelief. Wattie used his opportunity 
to take a large lump of cake from under Mrs. 
MQuhirr’s very nose, and then slip unobserved, save 
by his mother, out of the room. 

“ Mony’s the time,” continued the elder, that I 
hae thocht up among the heather that the Lord fits 
ilka yin o’ us wi’ oor ain job. There's mysel' that's 
fond o’ company, an’ no averse to the drap o’ drink 
an’ the haivers, an’ micht hae gane far wrang but 
for the grace of God — ” 

Here Felix Durand smiled as he thought of the 
Cameronian elder “ going wrong ” amid the coarse 
ribaldry of the Whinnyliggate Public. 

“ But the Lord sent me awa’ up amang the wild 
fowl, to hear them cryin’ to yin anither, to listen to 
the snipe yammerin’ i’ the gloamin,’ whiles wailing 
an’ cryin’ like a lost soul ; it’s the verra gospel that 
I needit — man doesna need to be his lane when 
he’s in the presence o’ his Maister’s warks.” 

“ Hoots, Saunders,” said his wife, “ ye think far 
ower muckle o’ the beasts that perish. What wad 
the minister say gin he heard ye, an’ you an elder ! 
Ye forget yersel’ !” 

Beasts that perish,” quo’ he, “ hoo do ye ken that 
they perish ? Solomon didna ken whether or no’, an’ 
maybe ye’ll no be muckle wiser. But I wush that I 
kenned for certain that the wild craiturs had souls 
o’ their ain, an’ that I could speak their speech ; 


A MISSION TO THE CKOWS. 1 65 

they would be far kindlier to work amang than the 
feck o’ fowk,” 

“ A graun’ missionary ye wad be,” said Mistress 
M’Quhirr, scornfully, “ a missionary to the craws ; 
but yer ower late, ma man, for Wattie’s afore ye 
there — bless me whaur’s the boy ?” she added, now 
missing him for the first time. 

“ How was that, madam ?” asked Felix, curious to 
hear how Wattie had been a missionary to the 
crows. 

“ Weel, ye see sir, this is the wye it was. The 
boy’s fell fond o’ stannin’ oot on some bit rock up 
by the Craigs an’ preachin’, wi’ his wye o’t, and yae 
day wha should gang by but the minister frae 
Whunnyliggate, an’ says he to the boy : 

“ ‘ Ma man,’ says he, ^ what are ye makkin’ sic a 
noise for, are ye frichtin’ the craws ?’ 

‘ Na,’ says Wattie, strechtforrit like, for he has 
nae fear o’ man. ‘ I’m preachin’, an’ that frechts 
the craws graun’ !’ 

“ ‘ But,’ says the minister, ‘ when we preach we 
gather in the people ; we do not frighten them 
away.’ 

“ ‘ Weel,’ says ma man, ‘ it’s maybe different doon 
at Whunnyliggate, but up at Drumquhat no’ a single 
craw’ll come near when I’m preachin’ !’ 

“ So the minister gaed his wyes wi’ something to 
think aboot, for its weel kenned that there’s an 
empty kirk whaurever he preaches in a’ the presby- 
tery an’ e'en as far as Dumfries.” 

“ That was the day,” said Saunders, “when Wattie 
cam’ back with the new waistcoat.” 

“Ay, was’t,” said Mistress M’Quhirr. “Wattie 


i66 


A GALLOWAY HEED. 


gets leave to rin juistas he likes in the simmer time, 
though his mither is aye fikein’ an' mendin’, but for 
a’ he gets sae duddy that he’s juist no’ fit to be seen. 
But yae day he cam’ in at denner time andhelookit 
wunnerfu’ snod in a sleeved waistcoat, that was near 
to his heels at the back, an’ had the wristban’s 
turned up to near the elbow. 

* Where gat ye the coat, Wattie ?’ I asked him, 
as sune as I clappit my e’en on him. 

“ ‘ O granny,’ he said, ‘ dinna be angry, I juist 
changed coats wi’ the craw bogle !’ 

“ Ay, an’ he was a deal snodder for the ex- 
change !” 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

CAPTURED. 

The airs of the evening are ruffling the still 
waters of the Tinkler’s Loup. They breathe down 
upon it from the resinous fir wood and the dewy 
birch copse. A faint golden glow pervades the 
duskiest coverts overhanging the water’s edge, 
while the setting sun turns all the invisible clouds 
above into airy wisps of glory. Down under the 
overhanging crest of the grey whinstone rock there 
is an occasional movement of the heather which to 
a keen eye does not seem quite natural. Now and 
then a bird bends that way on level wing, and, sud- 
denly breaking the line of its flight, it rises again 
§tartlQ4 snd surprised at sginetbing that it seeg, 


CAPTURED. 


67 


Down there a man is lying among the heath and 
the bracken. He wears a moleskin cap pulled 
down over his eyes, a ragged coat that has once 
been velveteen, trousers of the color of dried clay, 
and unclasped clogs with the straw sticking out all 
round them. It is Mr. “ Sawny ” Bean of the Hang- 
ing Shaw. Motionless as the stones on which he lies, 
he keeps his watch, his eyes peering westward up 
the long glen. The poacher is out early to-night. 
But for all that, Gib M’Allister, the laird’s keeper, 
followed him from his nest at the Hanging Shaw to 
within a mile of the Tinkler’s Loup, and then sud- 
denl5Most him in the middle of a meadow where the 
rush bushes grew thick. In a moment Sawny Bean 
had disappeared, as though he had become a disem- 
bodied spirit. Gib went to the spot. It was by the 
edge of the stream with a bottom of clean gray 
stone. The footsteps went to the edge of the water, 
but further there were none. Obviously, then, the 
poacher must have gone either up or down the 
stream. Gib chose to go down the bed of the burn, 
plashing through the shallow water, and stepping 
with long strides over the deeper pools. But he 
had not gone thirty yards before a wild duck sprang 
with prodigious clatter from the bank by his side, 
which told him plainly that Sawny must have taken 
the other route and gone up stream, or he would 
have disturbed the bird as he passed. So skilled 
was Gib in woodcraft. Gib turned on his heel, and 
plunged away towards the moors with a sullen 
determination to do his duty by his master, though 
with little hope of being upsides with so wary and 
daring a law-l3r«ak«r Sawny Bean, vvould 


A GALLOWAY HEKD. 


1 68 

have been even less hopeful had he known that the 
wild duck had been released from the poacher’s 
hand the moment before she arose with such a sud- 
den uproarious “squatter” under his very nose. 
Sawny could move more noiselessly in his clogs 
than an ordinary man with india-rubber soles. His 
heaviest movements sounded as natural as the 
plunging of a bullock, for it is only human sounds 
that the shyest of animals have any fear of. He 
had put his hand on the duck as she sat on her nest, 
plunged with the next movement into a fern-cov- 
ered runnel which fell into the broader burn at that 
point, and, reaching forward his hand, he released 
the frightened wild duck just as his ponderous 
enemy came hulking along the trail. As the foot- 
steps of the gamekeeper died away, Sawny shook 
with loutish and savage laughter. This was his 
idea of a good jest. If he could have clouted Gib 
over the head it would have been funnier, but it 
was well as it was. 

So in a few moments he was safe in the den 
where we first saw him, his keen eyes taking in 
every motion of the beasts and birds as far as 
Peter Chrystie’s farm town, whence the blue smoke 
was beginning to rise which told of the putting on 
of the “ parritch-pot,” the staple of life, morning 
and evening, on the upland. He saw Nance go to 
the byre with her “ luggie ” in her hand and her 
milking-stool over her shoulder, her head turned a 
little to the side as she lilted a blithe song which 
told whomsoever it might concern that she was 
either heart-whole or secure in affection returned. 


CAPTURED. 


169 


Aleck M’Qiihirr had washed himself and come over 
early. As he followed meekly to the byre door he 
would have given his head to discover which was 
correct. Wattie had come with him. The lad had 
found the good-natured young giant in a good 
humor, arid had got permission to accompany him. 
So as soon as Aleck was safely into the byre, and 
installed at Black Bess’s tail, with Nance giving an 
occasional sidelong glance at him, Walter stole 
round the corner of the byre, and took the straight 
road for the mysterious depths of the Hanging 
Shaw, which he had been strictly forbidden to go 
near, and which, of course, his whole soul longed 
in consequence to explore. He hurried along, his 
legs twinkling in the sun, and his shadow climbing 
up the bank till it was thirty or forty feet long — so 
long that he stood to watch it a moment, and in 
order to dance and turn somersaults to see the dark 
giant on the hillside do likewise. As he runs along 
the trout are rising in the Tinkler’s Loup, and 
making little o’s on the still surface of the pool. 
He wishes he had a fishing-rod, and bethinks him- 
self of the twine and bent pin in his pocket. He 
will cut a rod for himself, and surprise them all by 
bringing home half a dozen speckled beauties. He 
gets his knife out of his pocket, spies a promising 
clump of hazel, and clambers up to begin oper- 
ations. But before he can do more than set the 
serrated edge of his knife against the apple-green 
bark a sudden darkness comes over him, the noise 
of many waters surge in his ears, he tries to call out, 
but his voice does not sound at all, and a wave of 


A GALLOWAY HEED. 


170 

blackness swallows him up. In five minutes Sawny 
Bean has him trussed safely in the corn sack 
which he carries over his shoulder. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

THE SAND CAVERN. 

When Walter came to himself he was in some 
dark place lying on his back. He put out first one 
hand and then the other, cautiously. He was not in 
the barn, for it was not straw that he touched, but 
something cold and dry. It was sand. He knew it 
by the raspy, uncomfortable feel of it. Now, as we 
know, Walter Anderson was not a boy easily fright- 
ened. He remembered that something had fallen 
on him as he came up the path that led to the 
Hanging Shaw. He felt for his knife and it was 
with a pang that he recognized that it was gone. It 
was his sole defence. He began to move cautiously. 
He could feel the loose grains under him, and the 
compact, sandy walls dry and hard all about him. 
Trying to crawl in a straight line he became aware 
of a sharp pull on his left ankle. He turned quickly, 
and, putting his hand down to the place, found an 
iron ring went round his ankle, to which a chain 
was attached. He followed the chain with his hand 
till it came to a staple driven deep into a wooden 
upright. Putting his hand forward, he heard the 
rustling of straw, and, crawling cautiously forward, 


THE SAND CAVEKN. 


I7I 

he found himself in an arched wooden barrel, the 
bottom of which was covered thickly with straw. 
The barrel was open at both ends, and through the 
further there came a faint glimmering of light. 
Walter crawled towards it, but had not got bis own 
length out of the barrel when the pull on the ring 
round his ankle told him that he had got to the 
limit of his tether. 

Walter Anderson lay a long while on his elbow 
watching the glimmering light as it gradually faded 
away, and complete darkness surrounded him. He 
had not the least idea where he was or what would 
become of him, but he had been trained in the belief 
that there is nothing so unbecoming a man as tears, 
besides which they were generally useless ; so he 
crawled back into his barrel, curled himself up 
among the straw, adjusted his chain and ring in as 
easy a position as possible, said his prayers, and 
went quietly to sleep. 

When he awoke it took him a few minutes to con- 
vince himself that he had not been dreaming, but 
the chain and ring were too patent, and the straw 
of the barrel had not the fresh crispness of the corn 
sheaves in the barn. 

He began to feel hungry. It occurred to him to 
wonder if shouting would do any good. Finally he 
decided that he would not shout, for very likely the 
persons who might hear might be more inclined to 
do him harm than good. 

The light through the opening grew brighter till 
the whole of Walter’s cavern was fairly illuminated. 
Walter lay on his elbow looking wistfully at the 
angle of the sandy wall round which he could not 


172 


A GALLOWAY HEED. 


see. In a little while he heard some one moving’ 
towards him, but even then it did not occur to him 
to be afraid. As he watched there came round the 
bend a slender figure clothed in a long, ragged gar- 
ment of some faded color. It was a girl with wild 
elf-locks, and such beady black eyes swimming in 
lustre that Walter gasped with amazement. 

“Wha may ye be?” he questioned, instinctively, 
after a pause to recover himself. 

“ They ca’ me the ‘ Hoolet,’ ” said the vision, 
frankl3L 

“ But what’s yer ither name ?”said Walter, who, 
like all boys, was a stickler for genealogy. 

“ My mither ca’s me Jenny when she’s pleased, 
an’ my faither does naething but ca’ me ower 
(knocks me over),” returned the girl, sharply. 

“ Surely I’ve seen ye afore ?” continued Walter, 
affably. 

“ Ou, ay ; ye pat oot yer tongue at me the last 
time ye met me on the hill, an’ ye cloddit my twa 
brithers wi’ stanes for meddling wi’ yer black pet 
lamb.” 

“ Then ye’ll be yin o’ the Beans ?” Walter said, 
beginning to realize in whose hands he was. 

“Jenny Bean is my name. Can ye hinder it?” 
said the “ Hoolet,” defiantly. 

Walter could not gainsay the fact, but he wished 
heartily it had been otherwise. 

“ Come here, and let me look at ye, Jenny. Ay, 
but ye hae bonny een !” — this with the guile of the 
deceitful sex. 

Jenny came nearer, and sat down by the side of 
the barrel, pleased in spite of herself. 


THE SAND CAVERN. 


173 


“ What for did ye pit oot yer tongue at me, gin I 
hae bonny een ? They’re the same yins I had 
afore !” she asked, pertinently. 

‘‘ Ye wadna let me look at them,” said Wattie, 
with politic caution. “ Can ye no’ let me oot o’ this ?” 
he continued. 

“ Na, that I canna — it was my faither that brocht 
ye here, and an awfu’-like man wi’ him. This is 
where he keeps the dowgs he steals,” continued 
Sawny Bean’s daughter, frankly ; “ I canna let ye 
awa’, but I can bring ye something to eat.” 

“ Can ye no’ gang an’ tell my mither, then ?” said 
Wattie, “ an’ she’ll come an’ fetch me ?” 

“ Na,” said the “ Hoolet,” “ my faither has lockit 
the door, an’ even my mither canna get oot for a 
drap o’ water till he comes hame. He droons the 
dowgs that he gets na siller for i’ the loch ; but I’m 
sure he’ll no’ droon you !” 

Walter was glad to hear this, but wished he could 
put more faith in the assurances. Then the “ Hoo- 
let ” brought Wattie a jug of “treacle-ale” and 
three farrels of cake. 

“ There’s an awfu’ bonny wee lassie up at Dee- 
side that I saw ye playin’ wi’,” suggested the “ Hoo- 
let “ where does she come frae ?” 

“ She comes frae France,” said Wattie, enthusias- 
tically. “ Ay, she’s the bonniest — ” 

The “ Hoolet ” here stamped her bare foot on the 
sand floor of the dungeon. 

“ Get her to fetch ye treacle beer an’ cake, then,” 
she exclaimed, as she flung off down the passage. 

Walter listened to the sound of her retreating 
footsteps. He was sorry he had offended her, but 


174 


A GALLOWAY HEKD. 


for the life of him he did not know how he had done 
it. 

Five minutes afterwards a hand reached over the 
barrel, and dropped in the sand a wooden plate with 
a lump of butter on it as large as his hand. 

“ Pit that on the cake for kitchen !" said the voice 
of the “ Hoolet,” repentently. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

WALTER PREACHING TO THE HEATHEN. 

Walter had other visitors that day besides the 
“ Hoolet.” First of all a dog of exceedingly com- 
posite breed and much humility of demeanor 
visited him. It looked familiar with kicks and ill- 
usage, and it whined and licked his hand in 
sympathy and gratitude when he stroked its head. 
The pampered favorite takes a caress as his due 
even if he permits it at all, but the outcast shows a 
kind of pathetic surprise, as though instincts of 
pleasure hitherto unknown were awaking within 
its weary breast. 

But mostly it was deathly quiet within Walter’s 
sand prison-house. Besides the light which came 
round the outward bend of the cave, there was one 
bright ray of sunlight which made a brilliant spot 
on the dull yellow wall above Walter’s barrel. The 
spot slowly crossed the wall as the sun took his 
long midsummer sweep. Walter was not old 


WALTER PREACHING TO THE HEATHEN. 1 7$ 

enough to make a sun-dial of it, but the bright fleck 
cheered him in his loneliness, and kept him com- 
pany all day. Once it was closed up for some minutes, 
and Walter grew vaguely uneasy with the sense of 
some sinister eye looking him through and through. 
He looked all about, moving as far round in a semi- 
circle as the limits of his riveted chain would allow 
him ; but he could see nothing but smooth sand, 
and on one side the worn side of a rock, apparently 
smoothed by water. 

It was dull work sitting there. So in time 
Walter bethought himself of occupation. With the 
broad end of a barrel hoop he made himself a scoop 
for the sand, and having recently been reading the 
wars of the Jews, he set about the construction of 
such a fortress as had never been made in the sand- 
hole at home. It was, in fact, Jerusalem of the 
siege brought up to date with the latest improve- 
ments known to Walter’s science of fortification. 
In defiance of Josephus, Walter erected bastions 
and counterscarps around the Tower of Hippicus, 
and even mounted cannon (made of barrel staves) 
in the embrasures. So engrossed with this did he 
become that he forgot about his imprisonment and 
even about his hunger. The sand was soft and 
pliable, stopping where he put it, and readily tak- 
ing any mould. Really, it was not such a bad 
thing to be tied up like a dog after all. 

While he bent over his work, oblivious to all else, 
two pair of bright e3^es stole up to the barrel, and 
looked over in wonder and delight. They belonged 
to the “ Hoolet ” and her brother, better known as 
“ Sawny Beans’ Deil.” The “ Hoolet ” had revealed 


176 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


the existence of this fascinating prisoner to her 
brother with mystic ceremonies. 

“ Gin I tell ye something, Deil,” she said, ye’ll 
swear to tell naebody ?” 

“ I’ll say ‘ As sure as daith,’ ” said the “ Deil.” 

“ Na ; ye said that afore, an’ ye gaed an’ telled 
my faither. Ye’ll hae to cross it in bluid this time !” 
said the “ Hoolet,” who was far advanced in the 
freemasonry of the occult sciences. 

Whereupon she drew out of her pocket a thin 
black leather-covered little book of some twenty 
leaves, covered with such signs as children draw 
when they are learning their letters. This was the 
“ Hoolet’s ” dream book and book of magic. She 
opened it at the last page, and on the unprinted 
portion at the foot of the page she pointed out to 
the “ Deil ” a deeply scored mark of a form crudely 
cruciform, now faded to an unpleasant rusty red 
color. 

The “ Hoolet ” then produced a sharp-pointed 
bone out of the bosom of her dress. 

“ Let us see yer airm,” she said. 

“ Sawny Bean’s Deil ” reluctantly bared a rough 
and very dirty limb. 

“Will it be verra sair ?” he asked, flinching from 
his sister’s grim determination. 

The “ Hoolet ” answered by a rapid twirl of the 
pointed bone between her finger and thumb, while 
she held his arm tight in her other hand. 

“ Ow ! ow ! ye randy !” said the “ Deil,” wring- 
ing his arm out of her grasp. 

“ Hoots, Deil, it’s a’ by noo !” returned his sister, 
calmly. 


WALTER PREACHING TO THE HEATHEN. 


A red speck had started out from the back of his 
wrist, in which the “ Hoolet ” directed him to wet 
his forefinger and make his cross on the sacred spot 
where many crosses had evidently been made 
before. Without knowing it, the “ Deil ” had signed 
his adhesion to the Christian faith. He had put his 
X mark under the Creed, which is usually printed 
at the end of the penny copies of the Shorter 
Catechism. This was the “ Hoolet’s ” sacred book. 
Slie had picked it up on the road, where some child 
on his way to school had dropped it. So, having 
found it, she made a fetish of it. Poor “ Hoolet ” ! 
She was not the first who had done so. 

Thus it was that two came to be in the wondrous 
secret of the boy in the cave ; but such was Sawny 
Bean’s authority over his wild clan, and such the 
feeling of solidarity among them, that neither of 
them dreamed of telling the outer world of the 
secret. The Hanging Shaw was far from the 
current of farmhouse gossip and village talk, and 
the scions of the house of Bean were not received 
into society ; but among the village children they 
possessed a gaudy prestige on account of never 
having to go to school, get up early, go to bed soon, 
or wash their faces. They were supposed to have 
all that any mortal could wish for, and as the 
chance of a gossip with one of these happy mortals 
did not often present itself, it was eagerly taken 
advantage of when it did. It w'as not long, there- 
fore, before the “ Deil ” heard all about the vanish- 
ing of little Walter Anderson, and how there had 
been such racing over the country as never had been 
within the memory of man. A hundred men had 


78 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


been out on the Carsephairn Hills and over the 
Kells Range as far as Minnigaff, but no trace of him 
had been found. He had once been lost before and 
had taken to the hills, but on this occasion it was 
supposed that he had fallen into some bottomless 
hill tarn or was lying in the cleaving of some moss 
hag. His mother, they said, had gone out of her 
mind. 

Meanwhile Walter proceeded with the siege of 
Jerusalem, and, having completed the construction 
of the temple by hoisting the Union Jack drawn 
with pencil on a “ stap ” of the barrel, he turned his 
attention to the construction of the lines of attack. 
While he was settling preliminaries he sat up a 
moment to think, and was exceedingly astonished 
to see two heads duck behind the barrel with a 
simultaneous jerk. Walter burst out laughing. 

“ Come oot, gin that’s you, Hoolet !” said Walter, 
with his natural air of authority over all women 
folk. 

“ Tell us what yer makin’, then," said the “ Hoo- 
let," “ an’ we’ll help." 

“ I’m making Jerusalem," answered the archi- 
tect. 

“ What’s that ?’’ asked the “ Deil," quickly, who 
thought it was perhaps something to eat. 

Walter stared in dumb amazement. He could 
not conceive that any one in the world did not know 
what Jerusalem was. 

“ Jerusalem was where they killed Christ, ye ken," 
he said, softly. 

“ What did they kill Him for ?" continued the 
“Deil." 


WALTER PREACHING TO THE HEATHEN. 1 79 


“ They hanged Him on a tree, with nails through 
His hands and feet ; but He loved them, and said, 
‘ Father, forgive them,’ ” said Walter, who had the 
instincts of a preacher in him. 

“ I dinna believe’t. Noo then !” interjected the 
“ Hoolet,” suddenly. “ They wadna hae hung me 
on a tree. I bit Peter Chrystie on the hand till he 
let me aff when he wasgaun to lick me.” 

“ Ay ; but He wasna like us,” Wattie explained. 
“ He juist wanted to die because He loved us. They 
were gaun to make Him a king, and the boys threw 
branches o’ trees on the road afore Him when He 
cam’ riding into Jerusalem — ” 

“ That wad be when the gamekeeper wasna 
watchin’!” said the “ Deil.” 

“ Was there na lassies there ?” inquired the “ Hoo- 
let,” ignoring her brother. 

“ My mither didna say, but I think it’s likely. 
There never was a crood o’ boys withoot a lassie or 
twa cornin’ rinnin’ after them,” said Walter, criti- 
cally. 

“ Lassies are nae guid ava,” said the “ Deil.” 

His sister gave him a sound cuff on the side of 
the head, apparently without looking at him, and 
continued her examination. 

“Ye say He’s dead ?” she went on. 

“ My mother says that He’s in heaven noo, an 
that He loves us just the same as when He was on 
the earth,” said Walter. 

“ Loves you ?” inquired the “ Hoolet.” 

“ Ay,” said Walter, “my mither says that.” 

“ An’ me ?” continued she, vehemently. 

“ A7,” said Walter, a little more doubtfully. 


8o 


A GALLOWAY HEKD. 


“ An’ the Deil ?” pursued the remorseless inquisi- 
tor. 

“ I— I think so,” said Walter. 

“ Then it’s a big lee. Dead folk dinna love, nor 
hear, nor speak. I ken, for I’ve listened mony a 
day at a’ the grave heids in the kirkyaird.” 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

A MIDSUMMER NIGHT. 

It was past ten when Nelly Anderson stepped out 
of the company front door of the farm-house of 
Drumquhat. She came quickly and lightly out of 
the still white bedroom. There at the foot of her 
own bed was the small trundle of her lost boy, Wal- 
ter, now more than a week gone from her ken. She 
made it up carefully every morning, and at eve she 
turned down the clothes as though he were ready to 
come in from the field as soon as he had taken the 
cows afield after the milking hour. Long after 
she was out in the moonlight she saw the little bed 
glimmering white in the still room. She closed the 
door softly behind her, and came out into the lucid 
dewy twilight. Golden clouds lay yet in the west, 
but there was a brightness also in the east, as though 
the sun were shaking hands with both horizons 
across the nether world. 

Nelly Anderson was dressed in the short, close- 
fitting dress of gray country cloth in which she took 


A MIDSUMMER NIGHT. l8l 

her evening rambles with her boy. She had made 
the dress herself, and now wore it because it was 
Walter’s favorite. On her head there was one of 
Walter’s blue bonnets, with a spray of dead haw- 
thorn sticking where he had placed it on the even- 
ing before he had gone to Nether Neuk. Her face 
was pale even in the faish of the after twilight, but 
her eyes were abysses of deep violet, and her lips 
seemed to have collected all the color of her face, 
and shone like a cluster of geranium alone in the 
snow. 

Walter’s mother had not at all gone out of her 
mind, as the clash of the countryside had reported 
to the “ Hoolet.” She had only more completely 
than ever found her mind. She thought more 
clearly, saw more definitely, acted more promptly 
than she ever had done in her life. Not only had 
she been the life and soul of the search — directing, 
encouraging, discovering reasons for failure, and in- 
.spiring hopes of success — but she had gone abroad 
each night along all the old roads that she had taken 
with Wattie. She explored every swamp, skirted 
every loch, pushed her way through every birch- 
fringed glen, and often did iiot return to Drum- 
quhat till the morning cocks were crowing, and Saun- 
ders, the early riser, was stirring in his bed. Wal- 
ter’s dear “ Gran,” the resolute and resourceful, was 
far more apparently unhinged than his mother. 

To-night she set out with a determination as 
strong and certain as when first she took to these 
nocturnal wanderings. The mother’s instinct, long 
in abeyance, was fully developed in her now. Wal- 
ter in his den was sorry for his mother, and often 


82 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


thought of her ; but, boylike, he found even in his 
forced imprisonment something to console himself 
with, and for hours together, sad to say, he lost him- 
self in his sand castles and the education of the 
“ Hoolet ” and the “ Deil.” 

To-night Nelly Anderson has a new route before 
her. She strikes out over the hill with confident 
and eager steps, avoiding the drains and moss holes 
with the practiced art of a native. She who had 
been born and reared among the houses and pave- 
ments of a far city, now on this Galloway moor, and 
under the pressure of anxiety, has developed almost 
the finesse of Sawny Bean himself. She skirts the 
dyke which leads over the moor, and which con- 
tinues almost direct to the end of Peter Chrystie’s 
barn at Nether Neuk. Then to the left, avoiding 
the farmhouses, where a dog is fitfully barking from 
some general sense of uneasiness, as though regret- 
ting that he had not something definite to bark at. 

Then down the course of Neuk Burn she turns, 
seeing as she breasts the bank the moon showing a 
pale and moth-eaten edge over the Dornal Hill. 
Soon she is under the Hanging Shaw overhead. 
Sawny Bean’s mansion is just round the curve of 
the burn. At this point she strikes up the bank. 
With wonderful litheness and alacrity she climbs 
the steep slope, handing herself from point to point 
by the hazel shoots which grow’ thickly all the w^ay 
up out of every crevice of rock. When she reaches 
the top she steps out upon a small square of turf. 
For a moment she pauses, panting. She looks over 
the tops of the hazels and birches to the east. Turn- 
ing, the dark figure of a man faces her suddenly in 


A. MIDSUMMER NIGHT. 1 83 

the glimmer of the late moonshine. It needs no 
second glance to tell her who it is. 

“ I have found thee, O mine enemy !” is the cry 
of her heart ; but there is a gladness, too, in it — a 
kind of joy that the end is come, and that the next 
half-hour will settle all uncertainty. She cannot 
mistake Herbert Peyton, the evil genius of her 
youth. She knows the figure all too well. She had 
fainted at one glimpse of it in broad day, and sur- 
rounded by troops of friends, at the little bridge on 
the way from the Cameronian kirk in Cairn Edward 
so long ago, but now, alone and defenceless, she is 
braced till her muscles are like steel and her blood 
runs warm like wine. 

They stand looking at each other, these two. 
Their eyes meet over the years. It is a terrible 
meeting when eyes that once looked love meet in 
hatred, and as Nelly Anderson looks at the man who 
had tried to darken her youth, she sees him over her 
dead husband’s grave. 

The man did not move. He stood where he had 
stood when Nelly Anderson came out of the copse- 
wood. He stood as though it were the most natural 
thing in the world that she should be there, and that 
she should arrive in this manner. 

“ Well, Nell,” he said, lightly, with a mocking 
accent in his voice, “ who would have thought of 
seeing you upon the Hanging Shaw.” 

Nelly Anderson, with her head very high and her 
hands behind her, answered as though she had not 
heard the question. 

“ What have you done with my boy ?” 

Herbert Peyton laughed a laugh of intense §n- 


A GALLOWAY HEKD. 


184 

joyment. It was such a low and mellow laugh that 
to any but a distracted mother its merriment might 
have been contagious. He took in the exquisite 
jest of the situation for a long moment before he 
answered : 

“ He’s right below where you are standing at this 
moment.” 

Nelly Anderson reeled as though a bullet had 
struck her. 

“ Dead, dead !” she muttered, her hands up at her 
throat ; “ my boy dead !” 

The next moment she recovered herself. She 
took a step nearer to the man, who stood still in the 
same place, swaying his body like one who finds his 
position comfortable and does not think of changing 
it. 

“ I do not believe it, liar ! You have not the 
courage to kill even a boy. You have only the 
courage to lie !” she said, bitterly. 

“ No, Nelly ; it’s you that have the courage to 
kill — and for five years you thought you had killed 
me— and I am here yet ! And the boy for whom 
you put the knife into me, and left me for dead — 
well, he is not here.” 

“ Then you are a murderer !” 

“ Pshaw ! what is that so long as only you and I 
know, Nelly ? You were a murderess for five years, 
you know, and you seem to have thriven on it, loo. 
I’ll get along without your benediction, Nell, or even 
your old Psalm-singer’s !” 

The girl was silent. 

It was kind of you to come to the Hanging 
Shaw,” went on the soft voice. “It will be very 


A MIDSUMMER NIGHT. lS$ 

convenient. You have not left word with the Psalm- 
singer, I think, that you were coming to see me to- 
night. That will suit me very well. There is a 
vacant lot for you next your son, c/i^rie. If you will 
step this way I will be pleased to show you over the 
premises.” 

Again the mocking gurgle, like a demon laughing 
down in the earth, rang out. 

Nelly Anderson moved forward as if fascinated. 
As she passed over the little square of turf on 
which they had been standing, and where the bank 
began to slope on the other side, she came to the 
top of an incline of soft sand which ended in a wide 
black mouth of some deep excavation. On the top 
of the sand incline Nelly Anderson caught sight of 
something lying at her feet in the faint moonbeams. 
Her heart gave a stound as she stooped to pick it 
up. It was her Walter’s knitted “ comforter,” which 
she had made last winter with her own hands. As 
she stooped the man came behind her, and catching 
her by the shoulders threw his weight against her. 
But the girl, turning, caught her assailant with ner- 
vous fingers as both of them went sliding down the 
slope together towards the yawning mouth of the 
cave. As they did so, two figures dashed forward, 
both of them men — one across the moonlit turf, and 
the other crashing up through the hazel bushes. 
Darting towards the sand slope, they fell against 
each other at the moment when their feet encoun- 
tered the yielding sand. Their superior impetus 
brought them to the mouth of the dark opening 
almost as quickly as Nelly Anderson and her assail- 
ant. Herbert Peyton had not anticipated the 


1 86 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


Strength of his opponent, and he struggled vainly 
to disengage his arms to thrust her downwards 
from him. In the moment of struggle the two 
additional combatants were upon him. Nelly 
Anderson was snatched from him to one side, and a 
pair of heavy hands were laid on his neck at the 
other. It was Archie Grierson in whose arms Nelly 
found herself, and it was Sawny Bean who laid his 
great paws so uncomfortably athwart Herbert Pey- 
ton’s throat. 

‘‘ Quaite, noo, or I’ll choke the life oot o’ ye,” said 
Sawny, sending his thumbs home in a knowing 
manner. 

Herbert Peyton, finding the fates were going 
against him in this marked way, struck out sud- 
denly with both feet, kicking away the uprights and 
struts which supported the mouth of the excava- 
tion. 

The moment after there was a strange quiver of 
the whole bank. It seemed at once to tilt forward 
and to settle down with a soft rumble and a hissing 
rush. The opening of the cave closed up, and the 
sand slope stretched on unbroken to the dark edge 
of the Hanging Shaw. Overhead the “ Hoolet ” 
and the “ Deil” danced like imps of darkness. 

Sawny Bean relaxed the pressure of his thumbs 
on the throat of his late ally in sheer astonish- 
ment. 

Herbert Peyton laughed a little in a hoarser man- 
ner than before, but there was the same note of 
triumph in his tone. 

That settles the brat at last I” he said. 


AKCUIE GKIEKSON’s THIRD SERVICE. 1 8 / 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

ARCHIE Grierson’s third service. 

For a few moments the four figures remained in 
the same positions. There were two or three 
spasmodic heavings of the sea of sand before it 
finally settled into rest. A soft hissing sound filled 
all the valley, as of summer rain on a roof. 

That’s the caves fillin’ up,” said Sawny Bean, 
loosening his grip to listen. 

The man under his grasp glided like a snake from 
underneath his hand, and started to flee up the 
slope ; but Sawny was no blunderer on his own 
ground. With his heavy oak staff he struck at the 
ascending figure climbing the side of the sandhole. 
The blow took effect in the hollow of the knee, 
just behind the knee-cap. It was an old trick of 
the poacher’s — a stroke that never needs to be 
repeated. Herbert Peyton fell. In a few mo- 
ments Sawny had improvised a rough gag for 
his prisoner, tying it also round his head to make 
sure. Archie Grierson had assisted Nelly out of 
the pit, and they two stood silent in the moonlight 
on the green till Sawny had brought his prisoner 
to the top of the declivity. 

“ The next crack I gie ye will be on the heid ; 
ye’ll no’ ask a third,” said Sawny, warningly. 

Sawny Bean was not long in trussing up his man, 
and, leaving Archie and Nelly to look after him, he 
darted down to discover what were the changes 


i88 


A GALLOWAY HEED. 


wrought in the friable face of the cliif by the kick- 
ing away of the cave supports by Herbert Peyton. 
Apparently the whole side of the sandhill had 
fallen in. 

While Sawny was gone, Nelly Anderson and 
Archie Grierson stood looking at each other on 
either side of the prostrate and helplsss man. 
Neither had any idea what had occurred. A vague, 
dull fear sat on their hearts — Nelly in terror about 
Walter, whom she had heard called dead, and 
Archie watching with eyes faithful and loyal those 
of his mistress. Nelly swayed slightly, as though, 
in spite of her resolution she might have fallen. 
Archie was about to spring to her assistance, but 
something in her look restrained him. She put 
out her hand across the prostrate figure, and 
Archie Grierson, reaching his long arm over, took it 
in his nervous grasp. They both looked down, and 
staring up with a piercing insistency, they saw the 
blazing eyes of the gagged man looking at them as 
though the force of hateful looks had power to kill. 
But Nelly Anderson had long passed the time when 
any glances of this man could thrill or annoy her. 
They came from a dead past of which she had 
burned the records. She had come up out of the 
pit of trouble with a nature purified and ennobled. 
She had seen the Cross of Wood. 

Archie Grierson’s love had ever burned stronger 
and his courage risen higher. After his second ride 
he was content to let the remembrance of that time 
of trial sink to oblivion, but Nelly had not forgot- 
ten his kindness or the kiss that she had given him. 
Only she could not believe that out of the embers 


ARCHIE Grierson’s third service. 189 

of her life the flame of a worthy love could even 
yet arise. But Archie, strong in the memory of her 
kiss, had no doubts. She had knighted him with a 
touch of womanly lips. She was for him the one 
woman whose lightest whisper moved him more 
than all the ranged reasons of the world.” 

Thus they stood for a long five minutes, while 
Sawny made his explorations underneath. Their 
hands bridged the enemy, and the electric current 
of love mutually supported them. Neither knew 
how it was that Sawny had dropped as a bolt from 
the blue, and taken the side of the right. But they 
were content to wait till they had light on that as 
on other things, because they loved one another. 

A lithe figure, clad in fluttering and picturesque 
rags, alighted softly besides them, dropping as 
noiselessly as a wood squirrel in the moonlight 
upon the wan grass. It was the “ Hoolet.” 

She did not waste a glance on Nelly, but without 
prelude addressed herself to Archie. 

“You’re to gang ower to Peter Chrystie’s, an’ 
knock at the third window frae the barn end, an* 
ask for a’ the spades and picks that they hae, an’ 
come back as fast as ye can.” 

“ Is Walter dead ?” asked his mother, her hands 
clasped like vices one upon the other. 

“ Deid !” said the “ Hoolet.” “ Wattie’s no’ deid, 
but he’s buriet, an’ he’ll sune be deid gin we dinna 
howk him oot. Haste ye fast !” she said, turning 
fiercely and imperiously to Archie, who lingered 
undecided. “ Mind, the third window !” she cried 
after him as he went. 

Archie Grierson soon reached the farmhouse of 


190 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


Nether Neuk, which loomed up behind its beech 
trees and few domed haystacks which yet remained 
of last year’s crop of meadow hay. It rose white 
and still, like a deserted fortalice, the glassless 
windows of the barn loopholed as if for musketry. 
Archie had known no fear when he arose out of his 
heathery lair on the edge of the wood to rush on 
the assailant of his love, but he was conscious of a 
very different feeling now when he moved like a 
thief along the front of the buildings of Nether 
Neuk, very plain in the moonbeams. He had heard 
of Peter Chrystie and his reception of young men 
found wandering upon the premises at night, and 
for all his heart was with the party on the Hang- 
ing Shaw, he could not but wish that the “ Hoolet ” 
had gone upon her own errand. 

At the third window he paused, drew a long 
breath and then knocked gently. It was new busi- 
ness for him this — something he had not learnt at 
college. The corner of the blind turned up for a 
moment, and he had no more than time to catch a 
glimpse of fluttering white, which might or might 
not have been mixed up with the mischief-loving 
eyes and tangled hair of Nance Chrystie. He had 
not time to realize his impression, for a gun went 
off like a clap of thunder, a storm of pellets whis- 
tled about his ears, something stung him on the leg 
for a moment only, and a voice came roaring from 
aloft. Instinctively Archie turned and fled. He 
acted on the good Irish maxim that it is better to be 
“ a coward for five minutes than dead for all one’s 
life.” 

At twenty-four he may be excused. Probably 


ARCHIE Grierson’s third service. 191 

the heroes of Trafalgar and Waterloo would have 
done the same in his circumstances. 

“ I’ll learn ye to come to the Nether Neuk at 
twal o’clock at night withoot an invite !” said the 
stormy voice of Peter Chrystie. “ Rab Anderson ! 
Saw ye ocht o’ Rab Anderson, lazy taed ! It’s him 
that was to watch for scoondrels this nicht !” 

By this time Archie Grierson was safe under the 
cover of the fir plantation. He had scarcely got 
behind a tree trunk till another gunshot went off, 
and the leaden hail thrashed into the leaves over- 
head. As soon as he got under cover he regretted 
that he had not stood his ground, and explained the 
perfect propriety of his errand. He could have 
bitten his tongue for the undignified manner of his 
retreat, but he did not see very well how to alter it 
now. Besides which, if the “Hoolet”had meant 
him to inform the master of the house she would 
not have asked him to go to a window in preference 
to sending him to the door. He was feeling like a 
convicted thief when a pair of soft arms were laid 
about his neck, and he instinctively turned to receive 
as warm and willing a kiss as it ever fell to the lot 
of unworthy son of Adam freely to obtain. Archie 
stood petrified. 

“ Oh, Aleck,” said a hidden voice, somewhere 
from the upper region of his shoulder, “ he hasn’t 
hurt you, has he ; it was only peas, dear ; I drew 
the lead drops mysel’ yestreen.” 

For a moment Archie tried to speak, but the posi- 
tion was distinctly awkward. But before he could 
speak another figure stood before them. The moon- 
beams shimmered through the trees, and Archie 


192 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


could see that it was his friend Aleck M’Quhirr, 
Younger, of Drumquhat. His paleness was distinctly 
greater than even the faint moonbeams could ac- 
count for. 

“ Nancy Chrystie, I’ve dune wi’ you,” he said, his 
fresh young voice trembling. 

Nance lifted her head with a stifled cry, and 
pushed Archie away from her violently, then stood 
with her hands still stretched before her, looking 
wildly from one to the other. 

“ And as for you, Archie Grierson, I’ll settle wi’ 
you for this, as sure as there is a God in heaven !” 
Aleck went on, furiously. 

Oh, Aleck, Aleck !” faltered the girl. 

“ Haud yer tongue. I’ve dune wi’ye,” cried Aleck, 
both his accent and rudeness testifying to his 
jangled nerves. 

Archie Grierson came to himself in a moment. 
The scene he had left on the hill rose up before him. 
He stepped after his friend quickly. Aleck would 
not turn for the hand laid on his shoulder. In an- 
other moment he would have been out in the moon- 
light. Archie recognized that it was not a time for 
reasoning. He twisted his hand into the collar of 
the giant, threw his weight backward and brought 
him to the ground. 

Don’t make a fool of yourself, Aleck,” he said. 
“ Listen, Wattie Anderson is buried in the sand 
over at the Hanging Shaw. I came over to get 
picks and shovels. Nance thought it was you at the 
window. Man, have some sense, and be thankful 
for sic a lass !” 


HOW WATTIE ESCAPED. 


193 


“Come into the barn by the back door and get 
the spades, you great silly stupid,” said Nance, in- 
dignantly, finding her voice suddenly. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

HOW WATTIE ESCAPED. 

When the two men bearing the digging tools 
arrived on the platform which formed the crest of 
the sandy ridge of the Hanging Shaw, the east was 
brightening with a faint orange, and the first shrill 
cock was awakening his harem in some farmyard 
far up the hillside. But it was yet very early, 
though the stir of awakening life began, in those 
days of mid June, before even the dews of evening 
had time to cake the dust on the roads. When 
Archie Grierson and Aleck came again to the open 
square of sward it was deserted. Neither Nelly 
Anderson nor the “ Hoolet ” was to be seen. Sawny 
Bean’s prisoner had also vanished. From the bottom 
of the Shaw came the dull knocking of a mallet. 
They paused in the changing light, and looked 
helplessly at one another like men who had come on 
a foolish errand. A silhouetted imp danced towards 
them. 

“ It’s the Deil,” said Aleck, stating a fact. 

It was the eldest son of the house of Bean 

“ The ‘ Hoolet ’ sent word that ye were to come 
wi’ me quick, but if Nance Chrystie cam’ wi’ ye she 
was to gang hame !” 


194 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


“Nance Chrystie’s no’ gaun hame till she likes, 

* Deil,’ ” answered that young woman for herself 
from the rear of the procession, which she had 
followed unknown and undiscovered. 

She was a wilful as well as a winsome young 
woman, and wont to presume on the knowledge that 
Aleck was her obedient slave. She had often told 
him that he was accountable for her actions. She 
did what she pleased, but blamed him for whatever 
went wrong. She was the only woman who ever 
did this. 

The “ Deil ” guided them to the lower cave 
entrance, where Sawny Bean was laboring with his 
arms bared to the elbow, his wife standing by with 
a smoky torch made from a dried and resinous pine 
branch. Nelly was at w^ork also, her slender body 
swaying with the strength of her blows, as she 
brought the face of the sandbank down with strokes 
which seemed too great for a woman’s muscles. In 
a few moments the young men were also working 
with a will, but Nance had again disappeared like a 
will-o’-the-wisp. The “Hoolet” and the “Deil” 
had also vanished with congenial unanimity. The 
light grew brighter as the blush of dawn spread. 
The cold twinkle of stars and the wan light of the 
moon grew inappropriate and distasteful. Still in 
the growing light the three men and the one woman 
labored, while the pale wife of Sawny Bean held the 
now needless torch. 

But they made but little headway. Sawny glanced 
at the small impression they had made, then aloft at 
the brightening sky, and again attacked the wall of 
sand. Nelly Anderson had never paused since she 


HOW WATTIE ESCAPED. 


195 


took her heavy navvy’s pick in hand, striking as if 
unconscious of the weight of the instrument she 
handled. There was a formless and aching fear in 
their hearts. Each one of them knew that what 
they were doing was hopeless. There was no road 
to Walter Anderson, dead or alive, working as they 
were doing. Yet, as Sawny Bean knew, there was 
no other way. 

Aloft the Hoolet ” and the “ Deil ” danced like 
wild things. Sawny glanced once at his offspring, 
and sent a curse roaring at them, but they only 
danced the wilder and more frantically. Nance 
Chrystie was still invisible. The day came at last. 
The light poured over the moors, sending lances of 
clear shining even into the deep copses of the Hang- 
ing Shaw. 

A small stone hit Aleck on the hat as he was push- 
ing it back to wipe his brow. He looked about him, 
and, with one hand on a rowan tree which clung 
desperately to the side of the crumbling cliff, and 
one hand beckoning bewitchingly to him, was Nance 
Chrystie. He grew cold to look at her, but she only 
leant the further over and beckoned the more vehem- 
ently. 

“ Come up here, all of you !” she called down in a 
stage whisper. 

“ ril be the daith o’ that lassie,” said Sawny Bean, 
referring to his offspring, the “ Hoolet’s ” wayward- 
ness lying hard upon his paternal feelings when he 
thought of the trouble and expense it had been to 
rear her. 

But all the party, glad of any change that would 
take them away from the hopelessness of their 


196 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


labor, clambered out of the excavation which they 
had so futilely made, and took their way up the 
rugged bank, climbing and pulling themselves 
higher by the bending shoots of the birch and 
hazel. 

On reaching the top they found themselves on 
another plateau, quite distinct from that on which 
the earlier scenes of the evening had been enacted. 
It was, indeed, a private place of refuge discovered 
and exclusively used by the “ Hoolet " and the 
“ Deil.” The proprietors were there before them, 
dancing with even more than their usual abandon. 
Even Nance Chrystie could hardly keep her feet 
still. She pointed silently to something lying on the 
sunny side of a tree, wrapped in some kind of dark 
shawl. Nelly Anderson went quickly forward. She 
stooped down, drew back the covering, and bent 
towards the ground. In a moment she was lying 
upon it, pressing something to her bosom, and utter- 
ing half articulate sounds of affection and happiness. 
Sawny, Archie, and Aleck came forward also, and 
stood dumbly at gaze. The “ Hoolet ” and the 
“ Deil ” excelled themselves in fantastic contortions, 
while Nance Chrystie, her work done, quietly took 
herself away in the direction of the dragon-guarded 
dwelling of Nether Neuk. She was so happy that 
she even went in by the front door, careless whether 
her father should see her or not. 

What Nelly Anderson found at the foot of the 
tree was Wattie, slumbering cosily in Nance Chrys- 
tie’s shawl. The “ Deil ” and the “Hoolet” had 
preceded Sawny himself in turning traitor to the 
evil genius of the house of Bean, and Wattie had 


A NEW PKISONEK IN THE BARREL 


197 


been taken by them out of the barrel the previous 
afternoon. They had conveyed him up to their 
secret haunt, and the three had been employed till 
dusk in the building of houses made of pairs of 
stones laid side by side. Then Wattie made an 
afternoon call upon the “ Hoolet” at her house, and 
in a little that young lady repaid the civility. The 
“ Deil ” was the coachman on both occasions, and 
filled any subordinate roles that might be necessary, 
grateful and anxious to please, though neither Wat- 
tie nor his own sister treated him better than a 
dog. 

“ It disna do to be michty politeful to coachmen,” 
said the “ Hoolet,” as she fetched him a “ daub ” on 
the side of the head to bring him to a sense of his 
position. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

A NEW PRISONER IN THE BARREL. 

The safety of Walter did not settle the fate of 
Herbert Peyton. The reasons which induced the 
change in Sawny Bean’s allegiance remained hidden 
in his own dark breast. If Nance Chrystie knew 
she told no one— least of all her sweetheart, Aleck, 
whose slow moorland earnestness and honesty were 
like clay in the hands of his mercurial and imperi- 
ous mistress. 

Sawny Bean, having seen the rejoicing party 
going their ways to settle the question of their 


198 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


absences with their several households, turned his 
attention to his homestead and its dependencies. 

The lean-to house set in the angle of the dell had 
escaped the downward rush of sand which had .set- 
tled all about the outhouses and the cave openings 
at which the party had vainly labored. The coops 
and baskets which usually contained the produce of 
his poaching raids were mostly overturned, and 
some of them half buried. The “ Deil ” was dig- 
ging something out at one side. 

“ Let that alane, ye limb !” said his affectionate 
father. “ What are ye howk, howkin’ at there ? 
I’ll break the back o’ ye !” 

Suiting the action to the amiable intention, Sawny 
threw the spade which was in his hand at his son, 
but the “ Deil ” stepped aside with practiced grace, 
and threw a sod at his father with better aim. The 
tussock of grass took effect on the poacher’s mole- 
skin cap, and the sand scattered into his eyes. His 
remarks need not be recorded verbatim in this place. 
This is a moral tale. 

Sawny ’s wrath subsided into sulky growling, and 
rumbled away into the depths beneath his corduroy 
waistcoat. He passed the front of his modest man- 
sion, kicked the door open because his wife had just 
closed it, and knocked over two or three tow-headed 
children who happened to come within reach. He 
felt that he had been virtuous enough to last for 
some time. Having relieved himself in this way, 
he pulled away a turf and wicker screen which hid 
the entrance to the most northerly of the sandholes, 
one which lay so far under the shelter of the rock 
that the sand had passed it by. Pulling the wicker 


THE ROBBERY OF HER MAJESTY’S MAILS. I99 

after him he entered, and in the dusk of the passage 
he stopped before a similar barrel to that which had 
contained Walter during his detention. Within lay 
Walter’s enemy, Herbert Peyton, bound and gagged. 
Sawny coolly looked him over, turned him with his 
foot once or twice as if he had been a bale of goods, 
and finally, having slacked one or two of his bonds, 
and laid the iron bar of a life preserver ready to his 
own right hand, he took the gag out of his prisoner’s 
mouth. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

THE ROBBERY OF HER MAJESTY’S MAILS. 

This chapter is retrospective and explanatory. 
If the reader does not like its present position, it 
can, like the American politician’s sentiments, be 
changed. The sudden alteration of the intentions 
and partizanship of Mr. Sawny Bean was no doubt 
exceedingly puzzling to every one concerned — ex- 
cept, it may be suspected, to Miss Nance Chrystie. 
The simple incidents narrated in this chapter may 
throw some light upon the mystery. They took 
place several days before the rescue from the cave 
narrated in the last pages, but some days after the 
imprisonment of Walter Anderson in the cave. 

Her Majesty’s mails were transported between 
Cairn Edward and Whinnyliggate by way of the 
village of Balmaclachan. Richard Sproat, the 


200 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


lame post, commonly answering to the name of 
“ Hirple Dick,” carried them. They were contained 
in a leather bag till Dick got outside the jurisdic- 
tion of the “ town post,” who was supposed to be 
jealous of the Balmaclachan partitioner on account 
of his having a shilling a week more pay. There- 
after Dick carried them in his hand. The “town 
post ” was a tailor, and keenly felt the deprivation 
of the freedom of a citizenship which two deliveries 
in the day implied. 

“ A man,” he said, “ canna tak’ a decent drap 
amang his cronies till efter aught o’clock on Setter- 
day nicht.” 

But it is to be said of him that he made up for 
his abstinence between that hour and the time that 
the Red Lion closed its doors at eleven. Now, the 
Balmachlachan post could take a drop either on his 
“ out ” or “ return ” journeys, and, by reclining in 
the bield of some contiguous hedge, sleep it off, 
turning up in the evening again as fresh as a daisy. 
These were the days when there were no vexatious 
restriclions as to the time in which her Majesty’s 
servants might complete their rounds. At least, 
when any instructions came to the Cairn Edward 
post-office, or to any of the gentlemen attached to 
the rural delivery, such instructions were used for 
purposes widely different from the inteniions of the 
Postmaster-General at St. Martins-le-Grand. An- 
drew Leith, the Auchenrerrick post, kept a shop on 
the main street of Cairn Edward, and supplied 
groceries to the public on the way. He invariably 
kept a stock of “ Instructions to Rural Postmen ” in 
the bottom of his cart. The paper of the Depart- 


THE ROBBERY OF HER MAJESTy’s MAILS. 201 

ment is sound and good, and admirably adapted for 
wrapping butter in. It gave great satisfaction. It 
was generally observed that the letters of those 
who patronized the van of the rival dealer were 
never delivered at all. Andrew was understood to 
have made this arrangement with the authorities.. 

But “ Hirple Dick ” had no gig, neither had he a 
shop. He had got the job because, if he had not 
got it, he would have been chargeable on the rates 
of the parish ; so all the inhabitants petitioned for 
him, and he was appointed. He showed all the 
letters to each man, woman, and child along the 
road, and told who they were for, who they came 
from, and what they were about. This may have 
had something to do with his late arrival at Balmac- 
lachan and Whinnyliggate. Had post-cards been 
then invented he would never have arrived at all. 
The Cairn Edward “ town " post had often hinted 
to the postmaster that he ought to report “ Hirple 
Dick,” but as “ Dick ” was careful to take all his 
groceries from the postmaster’s first cousin, that 
official did not see his way to interfere. 

When “ Hirple Dick ” went to Whinnyliggate, 
he passed on his way back the end of the road which 
led to the farm of Nether Neuk. Nance Chrystie 
often came to see him. She had a large correspon- 
dence ; that is to say, her ingoing mail was often 
heavy, though her outgoing was usually small. 
Especially after a singing school or other rural fes- 
tival, the 5^oung men of two parishes vied in send- 
ing her gloves and verses of the “ I love thee, O, I 
love thee ” type. It was also about this time that 
the editor of the Cairn Edward newspaper had to 


202 


A GALLOWAr HERD. 


close his columns to “ Original Poetr3^’' Nance 
talked a great deal to “ Hirple Dick,” and the 
“ lamiter ” was by no means insensible to the glamor 
of her eyes. He thought there was “ no’ the like o’ 
her in the parish.” He told her as long as she 
would listen of the letters that he was carrying. 
Among other things he told her of the many curi- 
ous letters of the foreign-like gentleman that had 
been in the neighborhood for some time. Dick 
thought he was a surveyor ” or “ stoneknapper,” 
as the members of the geological survey were called. 
Dick had his own opinion about such gentry, and it 
may be embodied in an incident 

One of them, since become a distinguished profes- 
sor, had undertaken to explain to Dick, with whom 
he foregathered on the road, the whole wonderful 
history of the world. Dick listened, apparently 
fascinated and attentive. Some time after a land- 
owner in the neighborhood met the geologist in 
Edinburgh. 

‘‘You were down in our quarter the other day,” 
he said ; “ why did you not call upon me ?” 

“ Oh, I only came one day and went back the 
next. But how did you know of it ?” asked the 
geologist, astonished. 

“ You spoke to our post, a lame man — ” 

“ A most intelligent man !” said the man of sci- 
ence. 

“ Would you like to know what he said about ye ? 
Well, he said that ye telled him all about the way 
the world was made, and all about the hills — ” 

“ Yes, he seemed much interested, so I did talk 
to him more than one usually does to a rustic.” 


THE ROBBERY OF HER MAJESTY’s MAILS. 203 

‘‘ No doubt of that, for he said that ye were a 
very decent fellow, but, eh — what a hear /” 

Therefore, this foreign-looking man, appearing 
from nowhere in particular, to receive his curiously 
shaped foreign envelopes, addressed to the care of 
“ Mr. Bean, near Nether Neuk,” did not excite any 
great suspicion. But Nance had the curiosity of 
her sex, and when her friend, the post, passed over 
the daily correspondence to her to select her own, 
a favor he did not grant to every one, she found one 
day a letter with its thin foreign envelope form, and 
some words showing through which interested her 
vastly. Next afternoon she came down to the loan- 
ing foot with some of her own correspondence. 
She seldom committed a word of her own to paper, 
but she had a pleasant habit of returning the letters 
and unsolicited testimonials of her admirers, having 
previously carefully mixed the directions, so that 
no man ever got his own, but each was instructed 
in the sentiments and generosity of his rivals. This 
would have destroyed the chances of any other girl, 
but it only enhanced the prestige of Miss Nancy 
Chrystie. 

The next day Nance appeared at a turn of the 
road where the road wound past the most retired 
part of the Hanging Shaw. Here she was joined 
by the “ Hoolet ” and the “ Deil,” who carried out 
her commands with an instantaneousness which did 
credit to her powers of drilling raw material. 

The four set about some strange performances. 
On the edge of the road the “ Deil ” compacted a 
square of beautiful sand, which he divided into 
smaller rectangles, and covered each of these 


204 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


smaller squares with black earth and yellow sand 
alternately till he had made a smooth and beautiful 
“ dam-brod ” or checker board for draughts. While 
the “ Deil ” was occupied with this, the “ Hoolet ” 
was kindling a fire and displaying a tin kettle and 
teapot. All this was common enough in the after- 
noons, for then Nance Chrystie was understood to. 
run wild — Peter, her father, having “ no control 
over her.’* 

Presently the post came along. He had been 
longer than usual at Balmaclachan, and it was past 
noon when he came crawling round the corner, bent 
nearly double. At the distance of a few hundred 
yards “ Hirple Dick ” looked much more like a 
quadruped than a human being. But this was 
because you could not look into his heart, which 
was eminently human. Nance knew that Dick 
could not resist a cup of tea and a game at the 
draughts. So, when he came along, she invited 
him to wait and have a cup, at the same time saying : 

“ The ‘ Deil ’ says he can gie ye twa men an’ beat 
ye at the dams !” 

“ Hirple Dick ” sat down, removed his hat and 
the great, limp, nearly empty bag which contained 
the return mail, and started to his game with the 
“ Deil ” ; for that youth, who could neither read nor 
write, had developed a phenomenal power of assault 
at the “poor man’s chess.’’ Indeed, the “ Deil’s ’’ 
left hand against his right was about the only equal 
battle that he could get in the parish. Nance and 
the “ Hoolet ” superintended the cookery. “ Hirple 
Dick ’’ dropped his head lower and lower, his chin 
set deep in the hollow of his hand and his elbow on 


8AWNY BEAN SETTLES HIS ACCOUNT. 20 ^ 

his knee. Nance removed the bag a little to the 
rear, in order to be out of his way, and passed any 
of the contents which struck her as suspicious to 
the “ Hoolet To do her justice, it was only the 
“ Survey ” man’s correspondence which she treated 
in this fashion. The “ Hoolet ” knowingly steamed 
the unsealed envelopes over the flap, and when the 
upper cover was sealed she loosened the mucilage 
of the lower flap, and opened the letter without 
interfering with the upper seal. Having done this, 
she passed them back to Nance, who glanced rapidly 
over the written pages, closed the envelope, and in 
a few seconds her Majesty’s mails reposed intact in 
their bag. 

But Nance did not return one letter, which was 
addressed to the ‘‘Procurator Fiscal, Kirkcud- 
bright.” This she retained in order to give it to 
Sawny Bean, whom it directly concerned. It was 
about this letter that Herbert Peyton was now to 
hear from Sawny’s own lips, when in the cave he 
removed the gag from his mouth. 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

SAWNY BEAN SETTLES HIS ACCOUNT. 

A SOMBRE light sifted between the wattled hurdles 
of the door on Sawny Bean’s prisoner. Sawny him- 
self stood reflectively over him, after he had 
removed the gag from his mouth. There was a 
luminous obscurity in the cave, and the two men 


2o6 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


could scan one another without difficulty. The 
spy’s black eyes glittered under his eyelashes like 
the points of light in the head of a venemous reptile. 
He lay on the sand, trussed like a bale of goods, 
motionless and powerless, with nothing living about 
him but the sparks of fire which glowed, self-lumin- 
ous, like the eyes of a beast of prey. To him 
Sawny Bean appeared in no hurry to address him- 
self. He stood regarding his sometime ally with a 
sort of curious unconcern, turned him over again 
casually with the point of his toe, as one might turn 
over a dead snake, and then sat down beside him on 
a bank of sand. Herbert Peyton said nothing for 
some moments after being relieved of the gag. His 
mouth twitched and the muscles of his throat 
worked convulsively. 

‘‘Well, Bean,” he said at last,.” perhaps you will 
tell me the meaning of all this ?” 

Sawny said nothing in reply, but slowly drew out 
of the pocket of his tarry corduroys a shoemaker’s 
knife with a curved blade and a short handle 
wrapped round with resined twine. Slowly elevat- 
ing one great foot upon its opposing knee he began 
to whet the edge with a slow earnestness which 
was not unimpressive. 

” Did I not pay you well enough ?” continued 
the spy, turning his head aside to watch the process 
of sharpening with some interest. ” Did you ask 
me for anything that I did not give you ? You 
promised readily enough to get rid of the brat for 
me, and you were paid all your agreement and 
more. I used you as well as ever a man could use 
another, and now you turn against me, when we 


SAWNY BEAT! SETTLES HlS ACCOUNT. 207 

could have rid ourselves of mother and son at 
once.” 

He paused to mark the effect of his words. Sawny 
drew the shoemaker’s knife back and forward with 
a caressing movement, as though he loved it, or was 
enamored of the purpose for which he was prepar- 
ing it. But he said nothing. Herbert Peyton tried 
again. 

“ You needn’t think,” he said, “ that they’ll give 
you anything for selling me, or for helping them to 
get the brat back. I know very well that it was the 
old man at Deeside that put them up to the secret ; 
but if you’ll stand by me even yet you and I will 
share the whole estate of Deeside. What w'ould you 
think of that — eh. Bean, man ? I’ve a sure hold on 
the property if the brat were out of the way. We 
can do it yet, if you have got any of the spirit of a 
man in you.” 

Sawny Bean had never paused pulling the knife to 
and fro over the soft leather of his brogues. Some- 
times he held his hand a moment for the purpose 
of applying a natural emollient. He now tried the 
edge upon the back of his hairy hand, and mowed 
down the bristles with it as one might do with a 
keen razor. He put it also to a piece of half-tanned 
hide which had formed the binding thong of one of 
his temporary prisoners, long defunct. The tough 
hide ran before the cutting edge noiselessly. The 
eyes of the bound man followed it in a fascinated 
sort of way. 

Have you nothing to say. Bean ? You are within 
reach of a fortune, and you hesitate. You’re not 
going to turn coward and traitor both ?” 


208 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


For the first time Savvny turned his sullen eyes 
on his captive. They were full of a dogged inten- 
tion, so pitiless and savage that the more dangerous 
animal quailed before the grim ferocity of the 
inferior savage. 

Sawny began a search through the various open- 
ings — half ventilators, half pockets — which yawned 
at irregular intervals in his garments, and after ex- 
tricating such commonplaces as tobacco, wire 
“ grins,*’ a wooden otter for forbidden fishing out of 
their depths, he drew out a dirty scrap of paper, in 
which there remained the semblance of a letter 
which had once been intended for the post-office. 
Sawny’s clumsy fingers fumbled a while in trying 
to withdraw the contents from their cover, but, 
finding that he could not do so, he took the knife, 
and deftly sliced off the front of the envelope. 
Having laid this down he unfolded the letter, held 
it upside down, and looked it over with a profoundly 
satisfied and knowing air. 

Following the lines with his finger, a method of 
study which explained the grimy condition of the 
whole, he began slowly to read, like a schoolboy 
who recites without comprehension a lesson learned 
by rote : 

“To THE Procurator Fiscal. 

“ Dear Sir : — This is to give you notice that the 
boy, Walter Anderson, lost since last Friday from 
the farm of Drumquhat, was carried away and mur- 
dered by Sawny Bean who lives at the Hanging 
Shaw. His body may be found by digging straight 


SAW NY UEAN SETTLES 11 IS ACCOUNT. 20*9 

ill from the fourth hole from the corner of Bean’s 
house. A Friend.” 

Herbert Peyton had lain motionless during the 
reading of this communication, nor did he say a 
single word of expostulation or defence when 
Sawny Bean finished. So the reader suddenly 
thrust the paper within an inch of his prisoner’s 
face, and said : 

“ Read it yersel’ — see gin that’s no’ a’ richt. The 
‘ Hoolet’s ’ a graun’ scholar. What hae ye to say to 
that ?” he added, energetically, bringing the writing 
in contact with the motionless and mask-like face. 
“ Hae ye ony faut to find wi’ that ?” 

“ I know nothing about it,” at last said the 
prisoner. 

“ That,” remarked Sawny, indifferently, “ is a 
lee.” 

Then there was a great silence for some minutes, 
only broken by distant cries, which meant that the 
“ Hoolet ” and the “ Deil ” were having one of their 
eternal squabbles. 

Noo,” said Sawny Bean, calmly, “ I’m gaun to 
cut your throat !” 

As he spoke he laid the keen edge of the shoe- 
maker’s knife against the bare throat of the prison- 
er, who winced, and tried to turn his head to the 
side, then drew it away again as though not per- 
fectly satisfied with its edge. He tried it on the 
side of his boot again and finally tested it on the 
back of his hand. 

** Are you ready ?” he said. 


210 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


The victim did not betray any remarkable eager- 
ness. 

“ Maybe,” continued Sawny Bean, thoughtfully, 

ye wad like to ken that ye’ll be clean covered up 
wi’ guid dry sand. They say it makes the maist 
comfortable o’ graves. Mair nor that, the feck o 
folks graves are juist six feet deep — yours’ll be 
sixty at the least. But I’m no’ gaun to hang for ye, 
my man, as ye wad hae garred me do for the bairn. 
Na, ye’ll get a fine easy daith, an’ be na trouble to 
yersel’ or to onybody else as lang as ye leeve.” 

There was a pattering sound at the wattled door. 
Sawny turned. It was the “ Deil,” who looked 
curiously through at his father. 

‘‘ The auld, white heided man frae the Big Hoose 
o’ Deeside is here, an’ twa men wi’ him,” said the 
“Deil.” 

Sawny Bean rose, and replaced the gag in his 
prisoner’s mouth. 

“ Keep your mind easy,” he said ; “ I’m coming 
back.” 

When Sawny turned the corner of the great 
sandbank of the Hanging Shaw, he came suddenly 
upon his visitors — Mr. Durand and two other men 
who had come with him. They were tall, dark 
men, singularly like one another, with sallow com- 
plexions and dark hair. They were looking curi- 
ously about them, with the air of men who have 
arrived at some locality familiar to them by de- 
scription. They stood mentally checking off the 
features which they recognized. 

The old man came forward with his habitual 
gentle courtesy. He offered his hand to Sawny 


THE GALLOWAY HEED “LOOKS HIS SHEEP.” 21 1 

Bean, who took it as though it were some curiosity, 
and then let it drop suddenly. 

“ These gentlemen,” he said, “ have come all the 
way from France for your prisoner. You can give 
him up to them without fear — I assure you they 
will take exceedingly good care of him.” 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

THE GALLOWAY HERD “ LOOKS HIS SHEEP.” 

After the abrupt disappearance of the French 
spy under the escort of Felix Durand’s two friends, 
a great peace settled down upon the farms and vil- 
lages round the Dee Water. It was the height of 
the haytime, and there was the glory of the sum- 
mer on all the pastures. The hill sheep were little 
trouble now. Indeed, the minds of the workers were 
on other things. At the farm of Drumquhat, where 
Walter Anderson was busy learning his trade under 
the supervision of Aleck M’Quhirr, they were 
allowed to follow their winding ways along the face 
of the braes and among the heather-hidden crags, 
cropping the young shoots and the tender hidden 
grasses at their own placid wills, from the time 
when the dew was on the grass and the sunlight 
came chill from the east till the hour of the sleep of 
men. Sheep never sleep in the sense in which 
other animals do. At any hour in the short summer 
nights you can hear them munching and cropping. 


212 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


lying down to eat all within their reach, ruminat- 
ing for a little, and then moving on to pastures 
new. 

Walter Anderson went with Aleck one morning 
to “ look the hill ” — that is, to count the sheep on 
the undulating moorland which stretched away to 
the south across the wilderness of peat-hag and bog, 
towards the Range of the Kells on the one hand 
and the fertile straths which contributed to the Dee 
on the other. Walter now slept “ in the laft,” under 
the airy spaces of the unceiled garret with his 
uncles, to the undisguised sorrow of his mother, but 
to his own delight as being at last emancipated 
from boyhood and now at last become a real Gallo- 
way herd. 

Therefore, when Aleck was ready to go to the 
hill, the clock had not yet struck five. This meant 
that the morning had not yet really touched a quar- 
ter past four, for in these parts the housewife who 
does not keep her clock at least half an hour fast, 
and so snatch an earlier meed of labor from herself 
and her assistants, is held to be unthrifty and care- 
less of the precious hours. The theory of this is 
that if you can get your folk betimes to work in the 
morning, they will see to getting to bed in time 
themselves. Sometimes the clock in south country 
farm kitchens is as much as an hour and a quarter 
fast, which is stimulating to the practice of mental 
arithmetic, but is not supposed to be really so effec- 
tive as three-quarters of an hour, which commends 
itself to most mistresses as the golden mean be- 
tween hard driving and unduly permitted sluggish- 
ness. 


THli GALLOWAY UERD “ LOOKS HIS SHEEP.” 213 

If the inhabitants of the farm were not early astir 
at Drumquhat, the active mistress would be round 
with an inquiry. Mary M’Quhirr would have no 
loiterers among the workers for whom she was re- 
sponsible. 

“ Good mornin’! Are ye weel this mornin’?” 

“ Ay ; I’m no’ that ill.” 

“ Then rise ! We like the beds made i’ the 
mornin’ here.” 

Aleck found Wattie at the foot of the stair before 
him. He whistled up his dogs, which came rushing 
from the kitchen, knocking over a three-legged 
stool in their unnecessary ardor. Staves in hand, 
the two herds took their way down the narrow, well- 
trodden path to the horse watering-place, then over 
the stile on to the hill, and in a moment more the 
wet heather bells were lashing about their ankles. 
The sun had climbed a considerable part of his long 
ascent up the sky, and the larks were singing and 
pulsating upwards as if they were the sole choris- 
ters of the joy of morning. But as the heat of the 
sunshine began to dry the heather and the bent, the 
crickets sent forth their shrill note of content, while 
all about the whaups and the peewits were uttering 
their protests against the ranging collies. The 
dogs went hither and thither, now hot-foot in the 
scent of some nocturnally wandering hare, and now 
sitting down with the wisest air in the world to 
watch the gambols of the rabbits along the woodside, 
aware that the slightest advance would send them 
all vanishing to their holes. 

Wattie frolicked along, becoming grave and staid 
only when he remembered for a moment that he 


214 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


was “ second herd/' and talked about the cave and 
the “ Hoolet ” and the “ Deil ” to Aleck. That 
young man tramped along, keeping a keen and wary 
eye along to where he saw the fringes of his flock 
crawling like white mites far up among the mottled 
heather. Aleck answered in an absent-minded way 
until Wattie, with the instinct of the young for a 
pleasing topic, began to tell him what the “ Hoolet " 
had said of Nance Chrystie. Then Aleck took in- 
terest enough. Indeed, Wattie generally talked 
about nothing else when he was out with Aleck. 
When he^ and Archie Grierson went for a walk, he 
knew that he must talk about his mother if he were 
to be treated like a grown-up man. So clear-eyed 
is youth on matters which troubles older heads to 
unravel. 

Now the herds were coming upon the lower skirts 
of the sheep, it was the work of a few moments to 
send the dogs aloft to the right and left. The sheep 
did not seem disconcerted. They simply moved a 
little inward, and continued the steady breaking of 
their fast. But gradually the dogs wore them to- 
wards the centre till they were a not unequal 
column making its w^ay over the moor in a direction 
quite opposite to the farmhouse. Aleck directed his 
dogs as much with gesture as with voice, being in 
this the opposite of his father, whose stormy vocif- 
eration bellowed across the hilltops and broke in a 
thunder-clap upon the collies as they ran hither and 
thither. 

The sheep were compelled towards a “ slap," the 
opening in two- reaches of dyke which formed a 
right angle with a bite out at the point of junction. 


THE GALLOWAY HERD “ LOOKS HIS SHEEP.” 21 5 

At one side of the “ slap ” stood Aleck M’Quhirr, 
and at the other Wattie, both counting by “ scores ” 
as the woolly backs came thick and fast, each meek 
nose laid on the back of its front neighbor. Aleck 
could count ten or twelve score of black faces with- 
out making a mistake of one, and his assistant has 
retained to this day the habit of counting by twen- 
ties which he was taught on the Galloway moors. 

When the press had passed, and the flock, issuing 
out of the narrow gullet through which it had been 
strained, had opened out and scattered along the 
many worn sheep-tracks for the enjoyment of other 
twelve hours’ uninterrupted liberty, Walter and his 
friend continued their upward journey along the 
march-dyke, where they encountered Rab Affleck, 
the very indolent “ herd ” of Peter Chrystie, the 
farmer of Nether Neuk. 

He was sitting on the dyke, smoking the most 
meditative of pipes, and gazing down at the farm to 
the master of which he owned allegiance. 

“ Good-morning, Rab,” said Aleck M’Quhirr, from 
his own side of the stone dyke. 

“ Ay, Aleck,” replied Rab, politely, without mov- 
ing an inch. 

As for Wattie, he went off with the dogs on a 
quest after rabbits, chasing any of these animals 
that might be about into the march-dykes, in which 
he instantly began to burrow, pulling out stones, to 
the destruction of the stability of the structure. 
Aleck and the indolent giant remained alone in con- 
versation. Rab, indeed, had never taken his eyes 
off the farmhouse of Nether Neuk. 

“ What may ye be lookin’ at, Rab .^” asked Aleck. 


216 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


“ Fm juist wondering what yon red cloot may be 
for that Nance Chrystiehas hinging oot o’ her room 
window.” 

Had Rab’s eyes been lifted for a moment to the 
ingenuous cheeks of his brother herd across the 
dyke, he would have seen another red signal flutter- 
ing out at his words, but he was content to go on 
smoking. Well did Aleck know the meaning of the 
signal in the window of the third room round the 
corner, for the pleasure of looking at which he came 
every morning two miles out of his way. Aleck was 
no great artist, but he had with prodigious labor 
drawn a Chinese-looking elevation of the houses of 
Nether Neuk, as like as possible to the one which 
he had seen the masons use when they came to build 
the porch at Drumquhat, and to break the new front 
door through the wall. Drawing was looked upon 
as the very idlest of all occupations at Drumquhat, 
and an artist was no better considered than one 
manifestly afflicted by the Almighty, who had with- 
drawn from him his due proportion of brains. 

It was a Whinnyliggate man standing in a field 
who called over to another who was complacently 
examining the work of a busy open-air painter over 
the artist’s shoulder : 

“ Man, Tam, what’s the craitur doing ?” 

To which the critic, strong in his facts, responded 
readily : 

“ Drawin’ wi’ pent !” 

“ Is’t bonny ?” continued the inquirer in the turnip 
field. 

“ Na ; ocht but bonny !” 

But Aleck cherished his sketch as more beautiful 


THE GALLOWAY lIEliD “LOOKS IIIS SIIEEl'.” 21/ 

than a whole academy of design. He had labored 
at it. He had made it all himself, and there was on 
it a picture of the house in which his beloved Nance 
had her being, the room in which she took her 
meals, and that in which she slept. He had never 
dared to show the work of art to Nance. He feared 
the burst of laughter which would have undoubt- 
edly followed. 

Aleck had caiise, therefore, to know that window 
ill which the red ensign was set. He knew also its 
meaning in Nance’s code of signals ; for that lively 
young w^oman could do nothing without elaborate 
mystery, and much parade of the imagination. He 
was to meet her that night at the old trysting place 
by the Hanging Shaw, and his heart went thumping 
quick time at the thought. Just then a lilac dress 
and a sun bonnet passed across the open space of the 
farmyard, swinging a bright milk-can in the hand of 
the wearer. The figure stood for a moment as though 
looking towards the side of the hill. Aleck sprang 
upon the march-dyke his full height, regardle.ss of 
the presence of Rab Affleck, who puffed stolidly at 
his pipe as if he did not know that his master was 
seeking him distractedly over half the farm. The 
young man snatched the cap from his head, and 
twirled it wildly on his shepherd staff. 

Rab Affleck seated on his dyke, smiled grimly, 
took his pipe out of his mouth, and said : 

“ That’s Jess Muirhead, the byre lass. She wull 
be pleased !” 

Aleck dropped from his wall as if he had been 
shot. 

“ I’ll crack yer croon till ye, Rab Affleck — ” he 


2I8 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


was beginning belligerently ; when, soughing up 
from the hollow, the light wind brought the echo of 
a far-away voice : 

“ Saw ye ocht o’ Rab An’erson, lazy taed ? Saw 
ye ocht o’ Rab An’erson, lazy taed ?” 

Aleck had a high opinion of the good qualities of 
the father-in-law whom he proposed for himself, 
but he felt that this was not the time for an inter- 
view, so he rolled over among the heather till he 
came to the first convenient moss hag along which 
he glided till he was safe in a sheltered hollow. 

Just then there came a rattle and a rush of stones, 
and looking up cautiously, Aleck saw Wattie fleeing 
in company with both the dogs, pursued by a stormy 
voice, which said : 

“ Gae hame wi’ ye, ye misleared vaigabond, com- 
ing pu’in’ doon my mairch-dykes ! Dinna let me 
see your face on this side o’ the hill in a hurry 
again.” 

Aleck lay close as a hare in his form. He was no 
coward, as we know, but he congratulated himself 
that Peter Chrystie had not seen him. He wondered 
if he knew anything about the red handkerchief in 
Nance’s window. He never once wondered about 
Rab Anderson or thought what had happened to 
him. What is more, he did not care. Rab Ander- 
son and his master could settle their own quarrels 
as they had ofteri done before. 


THE minister’s VISITA.TION. 


219 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

THE minister’s VISITATION. 

The sun was glinting slantwise over the undulat- 
ing uplands to the east, and Ben Gairn was blush- 
ing a rosy purple, purer and fainter than the flam- 
boyant hues of sunset, when the Rev. Richard 
Cameron looked out of his bedroom window in the 
little whitewashed manse of Cairn Edward. His own 
favorite blackbird had awakened him, and he lay 
for a long while listening to its mellow fluting, till 
his conscience reproached him for lying so long 
abed on such a morning. Richard Cameron was by 
nature an early riser, a gift to thank God for. 
Many a Sabbath morning he had seen the sun rise 
from the ivy-grown arbor in the secluded garden 
behind the old whitewashed kirk. It was his habit 
to rise early, and with the notes of his sermon in 
his hand to memorize, or “ mandate” them, as 
it was called, so that on Sabbath when the hillfolk 
gathered calm and slow there might be no hesita- 
tion, and that he might be able to pray the Camer- 
onian supplication, “ And bring the truth premedit- 
ated to ready recollection ” — a prayer which no 
mere “ reader ” of a discourse would ever dare to 
utter. But this was not a morning for “ mandat- 
ing ” with the minister. It was the day of his 
pastoral visitation, and it behoved one who had a 
congregation scattered over a radius of more than 
twenty miles to be up and doing. The minister went 


220 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


down into the little study to have his spare break- 
fast of porridge and milk, and then, having called 
his housekeeper in for prayers — which included, 
even to that sparse auditory, the exposition of the 
chapter read — he took his staff in hand, and, cross- 
ing the main street, he took the road for the west- 
ern hills, where a considerable portion of his flock 
resided. 

As he went he whistled, whenever he found him- 
self at a sufficient distance from the scattered 
houses which lined the roads. He was everywhere 
most respectfully greeted with an instinctive 
solemnity of a godly sort — a solemnity without fear. 
Men looked after him as he swung along, with 
respect for his character and work. They knew 
him to be at once a man among men and a man of 
God. The women stood and looked longer after 
him. There was nothing so striking as that clear- 
cut, clean-shaven Greek face set on the square- 
shoulders, to be seen in Galloway, which is a coun- 
try of tall, stoop-shouldered men — a country also at 
that time of .shaven upper lips and bristling beards, 
the most un picturesque fashion, barring the mutton- 
chop whisker, which has yet been discovered. The 
women, therefore, old and young, looked after him 
with a warmth about their hearts and a kindly 
moisture in their eyes. They felt that he was much 
too handsome to be going about unprotected. 

Notwithstanding that the minister had a greeting 
for all, his limbs were of such excellent reach and 
moved so fast over the ground that his pace was 
rather over than under four miles an hour. Pass- 
ing the thirteen chimneys of the “ Lang Raw ” he 


THE minister’s VISITATION. 


221 


crossed the bridge and bent his way to the right 
along the wide spaces of the sluggish river. The 
old fortress of the Douglases, the castle of Thrieve, 
loomed up behind him through the wavering heat 
of the morning. Above him was the hill of Knock- 
cannon, from which Mons Meg fired her fatal shots. 
The young minister stood looking back and revolv- 
ing the strange changes of the past. He saw how 
the way of the humble was exalted, and the lofty 
brought down from their seats. 

“ Some put their trust in horses, and some in 
chariots,” said the minister, but we will trust in 
the Lord.” 

He spake half aloud. 

As ye war sayiii’, sir, we wull trust the Lord — 
Himsel’ wull be oor strength and stay.” 

The minister turned. It was a middle-aged man 
who spoke — David M’Kie, the familiar good spirit 
of the village of Whinnyliggate and the whole 
parish. Wherever sickness was, there David was to 
be found. 

“ I was thinking,” said the minister, “ that it is 
not the high and lofty ones who sit most securely 
on their seats. The Lord is on the side of the quiet 
folk who only wait. The mighty may take the eye 
with their bravery, but the victory is with those 
who wear the homespun.” 

‘‘Ay, minister,” said David M’Kie, tentatively. 

It was worth while coming five miles out of his 
road to hear the minister’s words. There was not a 
man who would have a word to say but himself in 
the smiddy of Whinnyliggate that night— not even 
the smith himself. 


222 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


“ Yes, David, it was grand, no doubt, to hear * Up 
wi’ the Bonnets o’ Bonny Dundee ” — Claverhouse 
clattering down the Lawnmarket and turning the 
West Port like a whirlwind with all his tartans flut- 
tering, but it was the Westland Levies with their 
scythes and their Bibles that won the day in the 
hinderend. King Charles and his men were a 
bonny sicht, with their lace collars and their float- 
ing lovelocks, but the drab-coats beat him out of 
the field, because the Lord was on their side.” 

The two men were now on the final rise of the 
hillside. The whole valley of the Dee lay beneath 
them, rich with trees and pasture lands, with wav- 
ing crops and the mansions of the great. The 
minister shaded his eyes with his hand, and looked 
beneath the sun. He pointed with his finger to 
Thrieve, whose tall keep glimmered up from its 
island amid the mists of the river. 

“There is the castle where the proud once dwelt 
and looked to dwell forever, having no fear of God 
or man. The hanging stone is there that never 
wanted its tassel, the courtyard where was the ready 
block, the dungeon for the captive, the banquet-hall 
and the Earl’s chamber. They are all there, yet 
only the owl and the bat dwell there forever.” 

“ I heard a bit poem that a laddie in oor pairt o* 
the country made on that auld castle,” said David 
M’Kie, “ an’ him no’ ten year auld yet ! I canna 
mind it a’, but I wad like to gie ye a screed o’ the 
first verse gin I can mind as muckle o’t : 

“ ‘ Oh, thou castle, old and hoary. 

Gone is all thy pomp and glory, 


THE minister’s VISITATION. 


223 


Now no more the Douglas name 
Sounds upon the trump of fame ! 

There thou stanclest ever lonely, 

With the waves and wildfowl only.’ ” 

“ But a boy of ten never made that !” cried the 
minister, stopping in his astonishment. 

“ Ay, did he, though, an’ plenty mair, only I 
canna mind o’ mair noo,” said David M’Kie, rejoic- 
ing that he had been able to astonish the minister. 

“ And who, pray, is the boy ? I would like to see 
him.” 

“ ’Deed, minister, gin ye’re gaun up to Drumquhat 
the day, as I jalouse ye are, ye may see him. It’s 
the boy that was lost. Ye may hae heard o’ him. 
They ca’ him Walter Anderson. He’s some sib to 
the mistress, I’m thinkin’.” 

“ Yes, I have seen him in church, but I never had 
speech with the lad,” said the minister. 

Na, I can weel believe that. The boy’s no’ 
partial like to ministers, ye’ll excuse me for sayin’, 
ever since he fell oot wi’ the Free kirk minister’s 
loon, and staned him off the Drumquhat grund. 
Saunders lickit him for that, an’ so he tak’s the road 
if a minister looks near ; but gin ye come on him 
afore he can make for the Hanging Shaw ye may 
get speech o’ him, and may be the means o’ doing 
him a heap o’ guid.” 

At this point the ways parted. The minister held 
on up the valley of the Ken, curving over the moor- 
land towards the farm of Drumquhat. He went 
more leisurely now that he had broken the back of 
his morning’s walk. The larks sprang upward, and 


224 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


their songs were the expression of an innocent 
gladness like that which filled his own heart. 

He climbed the high stone dykes as they came, 
sometimes crossing his legs and sitting a while on 
the top with a sort of boyish freedom in his heart as 
though he were off for a holiday — a feeling born in 
part of the breezy -uplands and the wide spaces of 
the sky. On his right hand was the dark mass of 
the Hanging Shaw, where it began to feather down 
to the Black Water, which rushed along in the shad- 
ow to meet the broad and equable waters of the Ken. 

As the minister came to one of these dykes, tread- 
ing softly on a noiseless cushion of heather and 
moss, he put his foot on a projecting stone and 
vaulted over with one hand lightly laid on the top 
stone. He fell with a sudden leap of the heart, for 
he had nearly leapt on the top of a boy, who lay 
prone on his face, deeply studying a book. The 
boy sprang up, startled by the minister’s unex- 
pected entrance into his wide world of air, empty 
of all but the moor birds’ cries. 

For a few moments they stood staring at each 
other — tall and well-attired minister and rough- 
coated herd-boy. 

“You are diligent,” at last said the minister, look- 
ing out of his dark eyes into the blue, wondering 
orbs which met his so squarely and honestly. “ What 
is that you are reading ?” 

“ Shakespeare, sir,” said the boy, not without 
some fear in telling the minister that he was read- 
ing the works of him who was known among many 
of the Cameronians as “ the greatest of the play- 
actors.” 


THE minister's VISITATION. 


225 


But the minister was placable and interested. 
He recognized the face as that of the boy who came 
to church on various occasions, but with whom he 
had found it so difficult to come to speech. 

“ How many plays of Shakespeare have you read 
queried the minister again. 

“ Them a’ — mony a time,” said the boy. 

The minister marvelled still more. “ But ye’ll 
no’ tell my gran’mither ?” said the boy, beseech- 
ingly, putting the minister upon his honor. 

Mr. Cameron hesitated for a moment and then 
said : 

“ I will not tell your grandmother unless you are 
doing something worse than reading Shakespeare, 
my boy. You are from Drumquhat, I think,” he 
continued. “ What are you doing here ?” 

The boy blushed and hung his head. 

Cutting thistles,” he said. 

The minister laughed, and looked about. On one 
hand there was a mown swathe of thistles, on the 
other they still grew luxuriantly all down the slope 
to the burnside. 

“ I suppose you are cutting down the thistles in 
Shakespeare ? There are a good many of them,” 
he said ; ** but is that what your master keeps you 
for ?” 

The boy looked up quickly at this imputation on 
his honesty. 

“ I’m on piecework,” he said with a kind of defi- 
ance in his tone. 

“ On piecework ?” asked the minister, perplexed ; 
“ how is that ?” 

“ Weel, sir, it’s this way, ye see. Gran’faither 


226 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


used to pay me a penny an hour for cuttin’ the 
thistles, and he did that till he said I was the 
slowest worker ever he had, an’ that by the time 
that I was done wi’ yae side o’ the field the ither 
was ready to begin ower again. I said that I was 
quite willin’ to begin again, but he said that to sit 
doon wi’ a book and cut as far roon ye as the hook 
could reach was not the kind o’ wark that he had 
been accustomed to on the farm o’ Drumquhat. So 
he took me off working by time and put me on piece- 
wark. I dinna get as muckle siller, but I like it juist 
as weel.” 

“ Does the field get done any quicker ?” asked the 
minister. 

“ Ay,” said the boy, in whom we recognize our 
own Walter ; “ I read half an hour an’ I work half 
an hour.” 

“ But how do 5^ou know how the time goes ?” 
asked the minister, for watches were not at that 
date to be found in the pockets of herd-boys on the 
Galloway hills. 

The boy pointed to a peeled willow wand which 
was stuck in the ground with a rough circle drawn 
round it. 

“ I made that sun-dial ; Rab Affleck showed me,” 
he said, simply, without any pride. 

“ And are ye sure that the working half-hour is 
always the same length as the reading time ?” asked 
the minister. 

Walter looked up with a bright twinkle in his eye. 

“ Whiles when I’m workin’ at the thistles it may 
get a bit kick forrit,” he said. 

The minister laughed a low, mellow laugh — a 


THE minister’s VISITATION. 


227 

laugh which did one good to hear. Then he quoted 
a text : 

“ ‘ And Hezekiah said, It is a light thing for the 
shadow to go down ten degrees in the dial of 
Ahaz.’ ” 

The minister and Walter sat for a long time in 
the heat of the noon-day regarding one another 
with undisguisedly innocent interest. They were 
in the midst of a great plain of moorland over which 
a haze of heat hung like a diaphanous veil. Over 
the edge there appeared, like a plain of blue mist, 
the strath, with the whitewashed farmhouses glim- 
mering up like patches of snow on a March hillside. 
The minister came down from the dyke and sat 
beside the boy on the heather clumps. 

“ You are a herd, you tell me. Well, so am I — I 
am a shepherd of men, though unworthy of such a 
charge,” he said. 

Walter looked for further light. 

“ Did you ever hear,” continued Mr. Cameron, 
“ of One who went about, almost barefoot like you, 
over the rocky roads and up and down the hillsides. 
He called Himself the Good Shepherd, and He 
looked after the very worst men as well as the best. 
Have you heard of Him }” 

“That was Jesus,” said Walter, reverently. 

“Yes, it was Jesus,” continued the minister. 
“ Would you not like to be a herd like Him, and 
look after men and not sheep ?” 

“ Sheep need to be lookit after, too,” said Walter. 

The minister smiled at the boy’s answer, but he 
was set on planting a seed in his heart, so he 
continued : 


228 


A GALLOWAY HEKD. 


“ But sheep have no souls to be saved !” 

“ Dowgs hae !” asserted Walter, stoutly. 

“ What makes you say so ?” said the minister. 

“ Because, if my dog Royal hasna, there's a heap 
o’ fowk gangs to the kirk withoot !” 

“ What does Royal do that makes you think that 
he has a soul ?” asked the minister. 

“ Weel, for yae thing, he gangs to the kirk every 
Sabbath, and lies in the passage, an’ he’ll no that 
muckle as snack at a flee that lichts on his nose, a 
thing he’s verra fond o’ on a week day. An’ if it’s 
no yersel’ that’s preachin’, my granfather says that 
he’ll rise an’ gang oot till the sermon’s by.” 

The minister felt the compliment, but being a 
modest man he was unable to say anything. 

“ And mair nor that, he disna like repeating 
tunes,” said Walter, who though a boy knew the 
names of every tune in the psalmody, that being one 
of the books which could with safety be looked at 
under the bookboard when the minister was laying 
down his “ fifthly ”, and when some one had put 
leaden clogs on the hands of the little yellow-faced 
clock in the front of the gallery — a clock which in 
the pauses of the sermon could be heard distinctly 
with a staidness and devotion to the matter in hand 
which was quite Cameronian. 

“ Repeating tunes !” said the minister, with a 
certain painful recollection of a storm in his session 
on the Thursday after the precentor had set up 
“ Artaxerxes ” in front of him and sung it as a solo 
without a single member of the congregation dar- 
ing to join. 

“ Ay,” said Walter, “ Royal disna hand wi’ re- 


THE minister’s VISITATION, 229 

peats. He yowls like fun, but ‘ Kilmarnoek ’ and 
‘ Martyrs ’ fit him fine. He thumps the passage 
boards with his tail near as loud’s ye do the Bible 
yersel’. Mair than that, Royal gangs for the kye 
every nicht himsel’. A’ that ye hae to say is just 
‘ Kye, Royal, gae fetch them !’ an’ he’s aff like a 
shot.” 

“ How does he open the gates ?” queried the min- 
ister. 

“ He lifts the bars wi’ his nose, but he canna 
sneck them ahint him when he comes back.” 

“ Ay an’ you think that he has a soul,” said the 
minister, to draw the boy out. 

“ What think ye yersel’, sir ?” said Walter, who at 
bottom was a Scot, and could answer one question 
by asking another. 

“ Well,” answered the minister, the Bible tells 
us nothing of the future of the beasts that per- 
ish — ” 

“ ‘ Who knoweth,’ ” said Walter, “ ^ the soul of the 
beast, whether it goeth upward or whether it goeth 
downward to the ground.’ ” 

“You know your Bible as well as your Shake- 
speare, I am glad to see. Keep reading it, and it 
will make you wise unto everlasting life. But read 
most about Jesus, whcr came to seek and save the 
sheep that are lost.” 

“ Do ye think that He could save Sawny Bean 
and the ‘ Hoolet ’ and the ‘ Deil ’?” queried Walter, 
sitting upon a bunch of bent, his eye brightening. 

“ It was just the like of them that He loved to 
speak to and be among.” 

The minister rose to go on his way. He shaded 


230 


A GALLOWAY UERD. 


his eyes with his hand, and looked towards Drum- 
quhat. The boy’s eyes followed him. 

He said : “ Do you think that I could ever be a 
herd of men, a herd like Jesus ?” 

“ You could follow Him. That is all that any of 
us can do, and we make a poor enough fist even of 
that !” said the minister, lifting his hat and letting 
the breath of air that blew irregularly from side to 
side of the moor on that still, sultry day, lift his 
long, dark hair. “ You could follow Him. He lov- 
eth such to follow Him. Of such is the kingdom.” 

So saying he took his way over the moor, cross- 
ing the wide peat hags and the deep trenches from 
which the neighboring farmers of bygone genera- 
tions had cut the peat for their winter fires. He 
w'ent with a long, swinging step very light and 
swift, springing from tussock to tussock of dried 
brown bent in the marshy places. 

Following the trend of the moor he followed one 
of the roads for leading carts off and on the peat^owc, 
till he came to a narrow lane which led downward 
to the cultivated fields around the farmhouse. He 
vaulted the gate without opening it, and found him- 
self almost immediately in front of Nelly Anderson 
and Felix Durand, who were walking along this 
whin-encircled loaning. The old man was leaning 
paternally on the young woman’s arm. Felix took 
off his hat to the minister with the instinctive polite- 
ness of an elder time, and Mr. Cameron blushed 
crimson, half at the salutation, and half at having 
been caught jumping over a gate like a schoolboy 
just out of school. 

“ Come away, Mr. Cameron,” said the old man. 


THE minister’s visitation. 


231 


who knew the minister very well, and had for him 
the respect of one true man for another, “ I shall be 
glad if you will help me to persuade this obstinate 
young lady that she must obey her elders and put 
herelf a little about for the good of her future and 
for her son.” 

The minister stopped perplexed. Nelly Ander- 
son stood looking at him with a smile in her violet 
eyes, and he was ready to give the case even pro- 
longed consideration. 

“ We have all been wanting her to go with me to 
Paris. There are things connected with her affairs 
there which need her instant attention, and though 
I have done my best, it is necessary now that Mrs. 
Anderson herself should come. There are clouds, 
too, on the horizon, and no one knows when they 
may break. I wish the business were well over, and 
she back in the quiet of Drumquhat.” 

Mrs. Anderson will, I am sure, do what is right 
in the matter,” said the minister, cautiously, waiting 
for Nelly to speak. 

“ I feel reluctant to leave the good and kind 
friends at Drumquhat, who have sheltered me for so 
many years,” said Nelly, “ but if it is for the best I 
will go.” 

Felix Durand patted the arm on which his hand 
rested. 

“ Spoken like my own brave girl,” he said. “ We 
shall all see Paris together.” 

“I met your son,” he said to Nelly. ” He is a 
wonderful boy. One day he may be an honor and 
a joy to you.” 


232 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


Nelly Anderson smiled. She always knew that 
Mr. Cameron was a man of singular insight. 

“ Walter takes after his father,” she said. 

The eye of the minister caught a quick indication 
of dissent in the instinctive movement of Nelly’s 
companion. 

“ Le boti Dieu defendT was what Felix said under 
his breath, but outwardly he said nothing. 

So with a word or two of farewell the minister 
passed on his way, and at the great barn-door he 
came upon Saunders M’Quhirr, master of the farm 
of Drumquhat, whose welcome to his minister it 
was worth coming a hundred miles to receive. 

“ Come awa’jMaister Cameron, and the mistress 
will get you a drink o’ milk, an’ ye’ll hae a bite o’ 
denner wi’ us gin ye can bide half an hour !” 

The minister went in and surprised the mistress 
in the midst of the clean and comely mysteries of 
the dairy. From her likewise he received the 
warmest of welcomes. The relation of minister 
and people in Galloway, specially among the poorer 
congregations who have to work hard to support 
their minister, is a very beautiful one. He is their 
superior in every respect, their oracle, their model, 
their favorite subject of conversation, yet in a 
special measure he is their property, though not in 
any way that interferes with his freedom of action 
or independence of thought. Saunders and Maiy 
M’Quhirr would as soon- have contradicted the Con- 
fession of Faith as questioned any opinion of the 
minister’s, when he spoke on his own subjects. 

On rotation of crops and specially on “ nowt ” 
beasts his opinion was “ no’ worth a preen.” It 


THE minister’s VISITATION. 


233 

would not have been becoming" in him to have a 
good judgment on the secularities. 

He had not been long seated in the clean stone- 
floored kitchen with the bacon hams swinging to 
the ceiling, before Mary M’Quhirr opened the sub- 
ject that was near her heart. 

Maister Durand, the auld man frae the big 
Hoose o’ Deeside, is awfu’ set on Wattie and his 
mither’s gaun awa’ ower to Payris wi’ him. Saun- 
ders an’ me dinna ken what to mak’ o’t ava !” 

Why not leave Aleck in the farm and go over and 
see it for yourself !” said the minister. 

“ Hear till him,” cried Mrs. M’Quhirr, “ is he no’ 
the verra prophet o’ the Almichty, takkin’ the 
words oot o’ oor mouths. That was the verra 
identical that I was proposin’ to my man. What is 
an auld man, a woman body an’ a boy in the middle 
o’ a’ that wickedness. My certie, but we canna let 
them gang awa’ by themseP. They are juist like 
oorsel’s noo, an’ that boy comes between Saunders 
an’ his prayers !” 

“ Hear till her,” said Saunders, “ it’s her that 
spoils him till his mither has to fleech wi’ her no’ to 
gie him a’ his ain way !” 

” I think you had better go,” said the minister, 
“ it is a long journey, but there's the same Lord 
across the water as on the farm of Drumquhat. 

Saunders and Mary bowed their heads. 

The family and dependents were all gathered 
together in the wide, cool kitchen of Drumquhat, 
for it was time for the minister’s catechising. Saun- 
ders sat with his wife beside him, the three sons, 


234 


A GALLOWAY HEKD. 


Aleck, James and Rab, on straight-backed chairs, 
Walter with his hand on his grandmother’s lap ; 
while a little apart, sympathetic yet tacitly excused 
from participating in the ordeal, sat Nelly Anderson 
and her venerable friend, Felix. Question and 
answer from the Shorter Catechism passed from lip 
to lip like a well-played game in which no one let 
the ball drop. It would have been thought as 
shameful if the minister had not acquitted himself 
at asking ” the questions deftly and instantane- 
ously as for one of those who were answering to fail 
in their replies. When Rab momentarily mislaid 
the “ Reasons Annexed ” to the second command- 
ment, and his reason reeled in the sudden terror 
that they had gone from him forever, his father 
looked at him as one who would say, “ Woe is me 
that I have been the means of bringing a fool into 
the world !” But his mother looked at him wist- 
fully, in a way that was like cold water running 
down his back, while Mr. Cameron said kindly : 

“ Take your time !” 

Rab recovered himself gallantly, reeled off the 
Reasons Annexed with vigor, and promised under his 
breath a sound thrashing to his model brother, James, 
who having known the Catechism perfectly from 
his youth up, had yet refused to give a leading hint 
to his brother in his extremity. Walter had his 
answers as ready as any of them. It was his 
granny’s Sabbath duty to see that he did not dis- 
grace himself during the week at Whinnyliggate 
school. 

Walter had on one occasion begun to attend a 
Sabbath school over at the village, which was started 


THE minister’s VISITATION. 


235 


by the enthusiastic assistant of the parish minister, 
whose church lay some miles over the moor. He 
had not asked any permission of his seniors at the 
farm, but had wandered off by himself to be present 
at the strange ceremonies. There the Drumquhat 
training had made him easily first of those who 
repeated psalms and said their Catechism. A dis- 
tinguished career seemed to be opening out before 
him, but a sad event happened which abruptly 
closed the school. The minister of the parish heard 
what his young “helper” had been doing over in 
Whinnyliggate, and he appeared in person on the 
following Sabbath when the exercises were in full 
swing. He opened the door and stood silently re- 
garding, the stick dithering in both hands in a kind 
of senile fury. 

The “ helper ” came forward with a bashful con- 
fidence, expecting that he would receive commend- 
ation for his great diligence. But he was the most 
surprised “ helper ” in six counties when the minis- 
ter struck at him suddenly with his stick, and 
abruptly ordered him out of the school. 

“ I did not bring ye frae Edinburgh to go sneak- 
ing aboot my pairish sugarin’ the bairns an’ flair- 
dyin’ the auld wives. Get oot o’ my sicht, an’ never 
let your shadow darken this pairish again !” 

Then he turned the children out to the green, 
letting some of the laggards feel his stick as they 
passed. Thus was closed the first Sabbath school 
that was ever held in the village of Whinnyliggate. 
The too enthusiastic “ helper ” passed away like a 
dream, and the few folk who journeyed every Sab- 
bath from Whinnyliggate to the parish kirk by the 


236 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


side of the Dee Water received the ordinances sim- 
ply at noon each Lord’s Day, by being exhorted to 
“ begin the public worship of God ” in the voice 
which a drill sergeant uses when he teaches an awk- 
wards quad. Walter did not bring this event before 
the authorities at Drumquhat. He knew that the 
blow of the minister’s oaken staff was a judgment on 
him for having anything to do with an “ Erastian 
Establishment.” 

After the catechising, the minister prayed. He 
prayed for the venerable heads of the household, 
that they might have wisdom and discretion ; that 
in the 3’’ounger members the fear of the Lord might 
overcome the lust of the eye and the pride of life ; 
for the sojourners, that the God of journeying Israel 
might be a pillar of fire by night and of cloud by 
day before them, that their pilgrimage way might 
be plain ; and for the young child, that he might be 
a Timothy in the Scriptures, a Samuel in obedience, 
and that in the future, if so it were the will of the 
Most High, he might be both witness and evangelist 
of the gospel. 

During the minister’s praj'er, the silence was 
deep and still on that summer afternoon. The 
family felt that their minister was leading them 
into another Presence and into another country. 
The M’Quhirrs stood reverently with bowed heads 
and hands clasped, Felix sat with his hand cover- 
ing his eyes and his white hair streaming over his 
brow, Nelly Anderson knelt by herself, while 
Walter compromised the matter of posture by stand- 
ing with his hand on his mother’s shoulder, as 
though at once protesting against her semi-Popish 


lovers’ tryst. 


237 


position at public prayer, and yet nevertheless iden- 
tifying himself with it because she was his mother. 

That night, when the minister had said his own 
prayers and committed himself to his God, his 
thoughts went back with a certain pleasure to the 
blue hearthstone of Drumquhat with the mysteri- 
ous “ whirlies ” tipon it which Mary M’Quhirr had 
produced with such care, and it was not the least 
pleasant part of his meditation that he had seen the 
sunlight glint on the golden hair of the woman 
who had not lost her girlhood by becoming Walter 
Anderson’s mother. 


CHAPTER XL. 
lovers’ tryst. 

Aleck M’Quhirr had got his horse stabled and 
himself brought, as to his personal appearance, to 
a state of perfection such as a year ago he had not 
dreamt of. He was therefore exceedingly afraid of 
meeting his father, or, in a less degree, his brothers. 
His mother he did not care so much about, for she 
had made up her mind to the inevitable ; and even 
mothers understand that when a man is careful 
about his attire for one woman’s sake it is a compli- 
ment to the whole sex. On the other hand, he did 
not wish to meet either of his brothers ; for Rab 
would laugh and James might follow him, and he 
did not wish to be troubled stopping to thrash them. 


238 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


But he was anxious that he should submit himself to 
the keen -eyed and sympathetic inspection of his 
friend, Nelly Anderson. He knew what he had 
gained in courtesy and readiness as well as in ap- 
pearance from her influence, and he wished to let 
her know his purpose and whereabouts that night. 
He therefore went round the little pinafore of 
garden which was attached loosely to the front of 
the house, keeping under the hedge skirting the fir 
plantation, and finally plunging through the scanty 
fruit trees to find Nelly Anderson in the little sum- 
mer-house under the great gean tree by the 
wall. He had seen her go there with her book. 
As he came near he stepped softly, for he heard a 
sound of weeping, the soft, continuous sobbing of a 
woman’s tears, and the short, quick words of a man 
earnestly pleading. 

“ It cannot be — I tell you, it can never be !” said 
the woman’s voice, punctuating the sentences with 
sobs. 

“ But I tell you that it is and shall be ! Where 
thou goest I will go !” said the man’s voice, firmly, 
and with a certain new masterfulness in it. 

Aleck turned on his heel to pass the summer- 
house as though he had been going in another di- 
rection. The two within were too much occupied to 
notice him. But before he turned away he saw that 
Nelly Anderson sat with her golden hair falling 
over her shoulders, and beside her Archie Grierson 
stood, with his hands tensely clasped, his finger nails 
denting the backs of his hands, and a fine look of 
manhood new-born on his face. Aleck hardly knew 
his friend. 


lovers’ tryst. 


239 


Soon the great summer night swung overhead as 
Aleck went towards his own love tryst. As the 
light faded a golden band of lemon yellow lay along 
the west. Overhead Venus shone so brightly that 
prominent objects cast faint shadows on the white 
dusty road. Aleck struck over the hill in the fall- 
ing dews of the night, the oat-grass and the meadow- 
sweet in the hollows lashing wet about his feet. 
He came to a standstill in the tree-sheltered hollow 
of his tryst. He stood against a tree with his blood 
running as it only runs when the heart is young, 
and when pure love makes the pulses leap as they 
will never leap again. He waited for his sweet- 
heart. He wondered if she would be mocking or 
serious. If only he could get her to be serious for 
an hour, what a number of things he would find out. 
He listened, not that he hoped to hear her — for he 
knew her silent, elfish way — but that he might hear 
something besides the thunder of his own heart in 
his ears. 

Down in the glen there was a sound of singing. 
It was wistful and yearning, and brought the tears 
to Aleck’s eyes — eyes that were easily moved to- 
night ; for smiles and tears neighbor each other be- 
hind the eyelids of those who are deeply in love. 

The song rose and fell as the winds blew in fitful 
breaths that still night. 

“ The Lord’s my shepherd, I’ll not want. 

He makes me down to lie 
In pastures green ; he leadeth me 
The quiet waters by.” 

It was the “ Hoolet ” and the “ Deil ” singing the 


240 


A GALLOWAY HEKD. 


Psalm that Walter had taught them in the cave 
under the Hanging Shaw. Walter had helped to 
evangelize the house of Bean. 


CHAPTER XLI. 

THE MEETING. 

The plaintive strains of New St. Ann’s floated up 
from the depths of the Hanging Shaw to Aleck’s ears 
as he waited and listened. He stood under a clump 
of willows which overhung the seven-foot march 
dyke at the back of Nether Neuk’s cornfleld. The 
woods by the waterside lay dark and lonely beneath 
him, only chance vagrant airs drawing regularly to 
and fro across them, waving the pendent ribbon 
leaves of the willow over his head, airing out the 
wood and the pastures on its flank as a careful nurse 
airs a child’s sleeping room. Aleck scented a whiff 
of acrid wood smoke blown from Sawny Bean’s 
cabin far below, which drifted upward on the same 
breeze which brought the sound of singing to his 
ear. A dog barked across the valley, and was 
silenced with blows, its bold challenge sinking into 
a pleading whimper. A stick snapped somewhere 
in the woods. There was a sound of saplings and 
underbrush whisking together after the passage of 
some large body. 

Aleck listened with a questioning ear. He was 
well aware that his Nance would not come or go 


THE MEETING. 


241 


like the stumbling ox. Others were therefore 
abroad to-night, and it was necessary to move with 
caution. Poachers or keepers, he knew not who — 
perhaps navvies from the railway huts at the Ben- 
nan. Soon he heard footsteps on the other side of 
the dyke under the shadow of which he stood. A 
match was struck, so near that the odor of sulphur 
was quite apparent. Some one lit his pipe under the 
old willow, so near that Aleck saw the glow light up 
his hands like flashes of summer lightning. Then 
darkness closed in thick and manifest, and Aleck 
still listened. There was more than one man at the 
other side of the dyke. Aleck’s impulse was to move 
away, for his longed-for tryst was manifestly impos- 
sible where he was. But before he had time to 
move, a hand soft as a young beech leaf settled into 
his, and a subtle fragrance on the night air answer- 
ing the thrilling of his heart told him that his sweet- 
heart was by his side. Nance, however, had no idea 
of going away. She pressed a finger on Aleck’s 
lips, and made him sit down on a boulder of gray 
granite. Here silently the lovers sat holding each 
other by the hand. 

“ Ye’ll hae to be cautious the nicht, Sawny,” said 
a voice, which Alec instantly knew to be that of 
Peter Chrystie ; “ the keepers crossed the Drum- 
quhat back field into the fir planting at the gleam- 
in’.” 

“ Tell me what I dinna ken, Peter Chrystie !” re- 
plied the sullen voice of Sawny Bean. 

“ Rab there saw them, an’, what’s mair, we 
crossed a track through the lang grass as we cam’ 


242 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


by the wudside,” continued Peter, disregarding 
Sawny’s ill-humor. 

“ Then ye had better gang hame an’ coont yer 
lassies, Peter,” chuckled Sawny. “ Gin the tracks 
gaed through the lang grass, it was nae keeper, but 
a lad cornin’ coortin’. Na, keepers walk the dry 
dykesides an’ alang the rabbit tracks, as you an’ 
that sump, Rab, wad hae done if ye had ony 
sense.” 

On the other side of the dyke from the willow 
there was a slightest quiver of noise, like fairy 
laughter heard in a dream. The three men did not 
move, but Sawny Bean turned his ear backwards 
like a horse listening, and dilated his nostril as 
though he could scent a danger. 

Out of the darkness at their back floated upward 
the song which Aleck had heard. The “ Hoolet ” 
and the “ Deil ” had progressed. They now 
sang : 


“ My table thou hast furnished. 

In presence of my foes ; 

My head thou dost with oil anoint, 

And my cup overflows.” 

“ I’ll anoint ye, baith the twa o’ ye,” growled 
Sawny, with grim irreverence ; “ ye’ll raise every 
pheasant within twa mile, an’ then yer table’ll 
maybe no’ be so weel furnished.” 

Wha’s that singin’ ?” asked Rab Anderson, 
under his breath. 

Rab had a wholesome dread of what was unknown 
and might therefore not be exactly canny. 


THE MEETING. 243 

“ It’s my loon an’ lassie. Deil tak’ them !” said 
Sawny, with paternal succinctness. 

“Nether Neuk,” suddenly began Sawny, after a 
pause, when the pipes were pulled quietly, and when 
Aleck could see the spark in one waxing and wan- 
ing through a crevice in the dyke, “ I want my share 
o’ last week’s catch, an’ I want it noo!" 

“ But Guffie, the game-dealer in Cairn Edward, 
hasna settled up yet,” said Peter Chrystie, in an 
agitated tone. 

“ Dinna tell me,” said Sawny, savagely ; “ I ken 
brawly that Rab An’erson got his siller when he 
took in the birds.” 

“ Here’s fower shillin’s. As sure as daith that’s 
a’ the siller I hae,” asserted Peter, but feebly, as if 
he did not hope to be believed. 

“ Fower shillin’s for ten brace o’ pheasant an’ twa 
pairtricks !” said Sawny. “ That’ll no’ do for me. 
I wadna kill sparrows for that ! ” 

“ But think o’ the risk that I rin, Sawny — me, a 
kenned man, wi’ juist twa year o’ my lease to rin, 
an’ the laird no’ that weel pleased onyway.” 

“Pleased be hanged!” snarled Sawny. “Ye 
hae plenty o’ siller to pit on the heids o’ thae lasses 
o’ yours.” 

On the other side of the dyke Aleck’s hand was 
grasped in a clutch which meant, “ I’ll pay out 
Sawny Bean for that !” 

The deep voice of Rab An’erson growled thun- 
derously. 

“ Leave the lasses alane, Sawny Bean, or maybe 
it’ll be the waur for you. They haena been siccan 
ill frien’s to you and yours that I’ve heard o’.” 


244 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


“ Ye’re richt there,” answered the savage, with 
unexpected graciousness. “ It wad be weel for you 
an’ me gin their faither war mair like them.” 

Aleck felt that the shoulders of his sweetheart 
were shaking with most unfilial laughter. He 
listened to hear what Peter would say to this. 

“ Hae, Sawny,” he said, “ there’s ither five shil- 
lin’s, an’ plague a haet wull ye get mair, though ye 
fleeched till the morn’s morn. Guffie canna tak’ nae 
mair o’ them, for they’re most mighty ill to get rid 
o’ this time o’ year. He says that he has to pook 
them, an’ tak’ them through till the English fowk, 
whaur he sells them for turkeys.” 

“ I ken,” said Rab An’erson, “ that thae English- 
ers ken plagit little, but surely to peace they ken a 
pheasant frae a turkey !” 

“ Weel, I dinna ken,” said Peter, now fluent when 
awkward questions of payment were off his mind. 
“ That’s what the man said, at ony rate. They’re 
baith the most horrid awkward fowl the Almichty 
ever made, for they’re ower muckle for yae man’s 
dinner an’ no eneuch for twa !” 

Here Rab An’erson put in his word very 
leisurely. 

“ Ye mind me. Nether Neuk, o’ the minister o’ 
Nether Dullarg that was sent for to a baptism at 
somehoose up on the hills. He was an awfu' man 
for his meal o’ meat, so, as he got there afore twal’ 
o’clock, the wife set doon till him yin o’ her cocks 
that she had killed for his denner. So when he gaed 
ben to the room to bapteese the bairn, the auldest 
lassie tak’s her apron an’ shoos oot the hen and 
chickens that had gotten in, an’ was clockin’ an’ 


THE MEETING. 


245 


dabbin’ on the floor. ‘ Shoo,’ she says, ‘ shoo ; oot 
o’ here wi’ ye ; rin, hens, rin, that’s the man thatett 
yer faither !’ ” 

“ Ye can sit bletherin’ here like whuttericks in a 
stane dyke till mornin’, but I’m gaun to my wark,” 
interrupted Sawny Bean, ungraciously. 

“ Tak’ awfu’ care an’ no’ be gruppit wi’ the watch- 
ers,” said Peter ; “ an’ gin they do catch ye, sweer 
that naebody but yersel’ kens ocht aboot it. Say 
I’m awfu’ sair on ye when I come on ye in the fiel’s ! 
Mind, the laird wad turn me oot o’ my bit grund 
gin he as muckle as jaloosed (suspected), an’ whaur 
wad Rab An’erson an’ you be then ?” 

Nance and Aleck seated on their safe side of the 
dyke, heard Sawny slip away in the direction of the 
laird’s covers, and in due time thereafter Peter 
Chrystie and his man, Rab, moved off towards 
Nether Neuk. 

As soon as they were gone, Nance danced round 
and round her “lad,” taking first one of his hands 
and then the other. Aleck stood delighted to see 
her so merry, yet glad there was no chance of any 
one seeing them. 

“ Nance,” he said, “ Nance, will ye listen to me ?” 

But Nance was not in a mood for listening. 

“ I’m gaun hame,” she said, “ I maun be there 
afore my faither. He’ll gang richt up the stair, an’ 
gin I’m no’ there to answer he’ll wait at the door till 
I come.” 

The beating of Aleck’s heart fell to zero. 

“ Nance,” he said, “ I hae askit ye mony a time ; 
be douce, and gie me an answer. Ye ken hoo I hae 
likit ye a’ my days. Nance, wull 5^e hae me ?” 


246 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


His voice trembled more than Nance had believed 
possible. She stopped abruptly, stood quiet a 
moment, and then said archly : 

“ Bend doon your heid, Aleck.” 

Aleck stooped, nothing loath. She laid a hand on 
each shoulder, and put her month against his ear. 

“ No, Aleck,” she whispered, “ I’ll no’ hae you ; 
but gin ye speak to my faither, an' tell him that the 
laird’s verra sair on suspectit poachers, or harborers 
o’ sic, ye’ll maybe get me 


CHAPTER XLII. 

A NIGHT WITH SAWNY BEAN, POACHER. 

As Sawny Bean slunk away towards the poaching 
resorts where his “ work ” lay, his lurcher dog 
followed at his heel, silent as a dark shadow, certain 
on the trail as a sleuth-hound. Such a dog is worth 
a fortune to a poacher. Without it his occupation 
is gone. The keepers always try to poison such an 
animal, for a dog that will hunt without a sound at 
night, and obediently bring its master all that it 
seizes, cannot be replaced in a day or often in a 
year. Sawny was a determined poacher, noted and 
conned as such by every keeper within miles. This 
made him, of course, a marked man ; but, then, he 
was not disliked by the farmers, for he often swept 
their plantation marches clean of hares and rabbits, 
and specially when the “ ground game ” came ptif 


A NIGHT WITH 8AWNY BEAN, POACHER. 24/ 

to feed on the springing corn, they would have paid 
Sawny double wages to secure him about the place. 
Then a stray pheasant was liable to be found on the 
farmyard wall betimes in the morning, which in due 
time found its way, no questions asked, into the pot. 
At harvest time, too, the farmers who went to the 
market saw the hampers going from the laird’s 
factor to the poulterers in the south, and knew the 
birds that had been fed with their oats and barley. 
It was Galloway nature as well as human nature 
that they would rather that Sawny Bean got them 
than the laird. 

Sawny plunged into the dark shades of the wood. 
The birches flung down their fragrant sprays on his 
head. Fir spines fell on his flat cap and slid into 
the hollow of his neck as he went on all fours like a 
silent beast. Behind him came his nameless dog, 
which generally answered, like his wife, to the 
name of “ You, there !” The darkness closed about 
the two like prison walls. Sawny made his way, 
running rapidly on his hands and the points of his 
toes, instinctively avoiding the slightest dry branch 
or crisp twig which would snap under his touch, yet 
making faster progress than an ordinary man would 
walking upright in the daytime. As he went he 
kept his face turned upward, glancing first one way 
and then the other towards the sky overhead, which 
glimmered through the lattices of the dark boughs. 
Suddenly he stopped, lying flat on the ground, as 
though suddenly turned to stone. “ You, there !” 
also sank down on the cushion of moss and fir spines, 
motionless and still, There were few better dogs. 


248 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


Once Sawny had been offered twenty “ notes ” for 
him. Refused with contumely. 

Looking upward one might see sundr}’^ dark 
shapes which could not belong to the anatomy of 
fir branches silhouetted against the sky. Had any 
uninstructed person been there, the shapes would 
have resolved themselves with a startled cry and a 
rush of wings into a flight of pheasants, which would 
have waked the covert and brought the keepers 
down at the double. But Sawny Bean had long 
since passed this stage. No pheasant would be 
startled for him or his dog. He had more trouble 
with the smaller deer of blackbirds and thrushes 
which roosted in the low underbush, and being 
strong in the wing broke away with an agitated 
shriek of terror on being disturbed. But even this 
difficulty he had long overcome. He was therefore 
a Master of Arts in his difficult profession. 

Gradually Sawny seemed to be growing out of 
the ground, slowly as though he were only some 
fast-growing shrub. He pulled out of his warm 
bosom a joint of rounded bamboo. Taking it in 
his right hand he softly rubbed it against the side 
of the branch on which the slumbering pheasants 
were roosting. One cock bird with a long sweep- 
ing tail acknowledged the attention by stretching his 
neck to the side. The bamboo was warm, and 
pleasant to the feet. It was strange that so exceed- 
ingly suitable a sleeping-place should have been 
passed over at roosting-time last night. So, with a 
sleepy cluck of satisfaction, he steps on to the bam- 
boo, and a moment later Sawny Bean’s strong left 
hand closes about his neck. The first pheasant is 


A NIGHT WITH SAWNY BEAN, POACHER. 249 

in Sawny’s bag. Sawny was the only man who 
could work a covert alone. He contemned the 
clumsy way by which a masked band with muzzled 
loaders would enter a covert and blaze away, mak- 
ing noise enough to scare the country-side. He 
had the primitive instinct of the savage to use his 
natural weapons. He was proud of his genius in 
woodcraft, and rather felt that he had fallen away 
from the pure simplicity of his method when, in the 
latter end of harvest, the corn being all gathered in, 
he brought three sheaves and set them up on a 
faintly moonlight night in a sheltered bend of the 
pheasant plantation, firing on the birds that black- 
ened them with a mere pinch of powder which 
could hardly be heard across a couple of fields. 
The ensuing slaughter and even Peter Chrystie’s 
money were not sufficient compensation in Sawny’s 
opinion for the brutal complexity of the method. 

Sawny’s bag was quite heavy when again he 
started across the coverts to his next station. A 
little farther on a hare lay yet warm across the 
path. Her neck was fast in a wire “ grin.” Death, 
as the newspapers’ reports say, had been instan- 
taneous. Sawny attended to this, not so much 
from motives of humanity as from those of caution. 
A hare caught in an ill-set wire cries out with a half- 
human cry which can be heard a long way off, and 
has been known to attract the keepers, who, instead 
of picking up the animal, have simply let it lie until 
the poacher came along to lift it, when both hare 
and captor were marched to jail. There was a 
little fall in the run at the point where Sawny’s 
wire was set, on the principle of the drop, and he 


250 


A GALLOWAY HEKD. 


had taken the precaution to draw his foot for some 
distance along the other hare runs, forming an 
obstacle which no self-respecting hare would pass, 
so that poor Malkin was positively shut in to this 
mode of self-execution. 

A covey of partridges fluttering in a net, a be- 
wildered rabbit or two come to the door of its hole 
for a breath of night air, another dead pheasant 
swinging with his neck broken in a loop hung from 
a branch — these were the further contents of Sawny 
the poacher’s bag when he began to think of turn- 
ing homeward. He was about to take his usual path 
out of the covert, between the two tumbled frag- 
ments of a great boulder which had been split with 
a charge of gunpowder in some boyish freak 
of the laird’s, down to the spring where he couid 
get his hands and face washed after the heat of the 
night, for refreshment more than for cleanliness. 

But before he turned into this path he heard out 
of the depths the clear voices of children singing, 
and stopped with a curse on his lips. It was 
another of Walter’s songs that came pealing up 
from the darkness, when the chill winds of the earli- 
est morning were beginning to blow. 

“ I to the hills will lift mine eyes, 

From whence doth come mine aid : 

My safety cometh from the Lord, 

Who heaven and earth hath made.” 

The song brought no thought of wrongdoing to 
the mind of Sawny Bean, dull in all that did not 
concern the things of nature ; but he stopped 
mechanically, with a dull senso of annoyance. He 


A NIGHT WITH SAWNY BEAN, POACHER. 25 I 

would stop that singing". He would twist their 
necks for them. He would leave his bag in the 
ditch and stop their noise. But at this moment he 
heard the sharp sound which the steel-rimmed heel 
of a boot makes when scratching on a stone. In a 
moment he realized that he had nearly walked into 
a trap. There was a rush of men from behind the 
great split boulder. A cry of “ Hae ye gruppit 
him, Lament ?” A reply of “ Here he is, boys !” 
Sawny threw himself flat and stiff on the ground. 
The foremost man tumbled headlong over him, and 
the second over on the top of the first. Where- 
upon Sawny retracted himself into the covert at the 
side as swiftly as a worm goes into the earth when 
the blackbird misses it. But he had to leave his 
bag, with all its precious contents, in the hands of 
the keepers. He himself was soon safe in the thick 
coverts of the Hanging Shaw. 

When he got down his temper was not at its 
most gracious. Threading his way among the 
tangled labyrinth of barrels, hen coops, and dog 
kennels that littered the slope, he came on the 
“ Hoolet ” and the “ Deil ” sitting on that log, 
called “ the hag-clog,” on which the firewood was 
chopped by the pale shadow who was Sawny’s wife. 
They were still singing : 

“ Thy foot he’ll not let slide, nor will 
He slumber that thee keeps.” 

Without stopping to speak or even swear, Sawny 
promptly knocked the singers right and left with the 
hard palm of his open hand. The “ Deil ” turned 
a practical somersault, and, instantly recovering, 


252 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


instinctively set his teeth in the calf of his father’s 
leg ; but the “ Hoolet ” lay very still on the grass. 

When his father had kicked him off, the “ Deil ” 
propped up his sister and ran down to the waterside 
to bring as much water up as the holes in his hat 
would allow. The “ Hoolet ” slowly came round. 

“ We maunna sing ony mair the nicht ; but come 
here, ‘ Deil,’ an’ we’ll say Walter’s prayer,” she said, 
weakly. 

Then the two children began to say over and 
over together : “ Our Father which art in heaven — 
Our Father which art in heaven — Our Father which 
art in heaven,” very softly and in unison. It was 
all they knew of the great World’s Prayer. 

‘‘Noo,” said the “ Hoolet,” say it for oor ain 
faither, an’ maybe God’ll mak’ him better to us a’.” 

The bairns drew closer together, and clutched 
each other tight for company. 

“ Say it twenty times for oor faither !” com- 
manded the “ Hoolet.’' 

And the children, under the waking chirp of the 
birds and the chill breath of the dawn, said over 
and over those mystic words in which they believed 
there was an unknown efficacy : 

“ Our Father which art in Heaven — Our 
Father which art in Heaven.” 

The faith that is the essence of prayer was in 
them. Who shall say that they were not heard ? 
At the door of his lean-to hovel Sandy Bean sat 
with his hands over his face. The tears were run- 
ning between his fingers. 


SAWNY BEAN MAKES A NEW START IN LIFE. 253 


CHAPTER XLriI. 

SAWNY BEAN MAKES A NEW START IN LIFE. 

It was the full light of the morning of the next 
day after Sawny Bean’s night encounter when 
Saunders M’Quhirr stepped out of his kitchen door 
upon the strip of velvet turf which separated the 
whitewashed wall of the house from the garden 
gate. He made little noise in rising, finding his 
clothes winter and summer, dark or light, with the 
facility born of sixty years of putting them in the 
same place and order each night. He rarely con- 
sidered whether it might be June or December till 
he went out to his morning prayers. He prayed in 
the corner of the angle of the house where the pro- 
trusion of the back wall of the milk-house formed a 
bieldy corner which was clear and still even when 
the snowdrifts were all about. Lightly as he had 
stepped, however, Walter was out before him. He 
stopped when he saw the master of the house, for it 
was Aleck \vhom he had hoped to find. But his 
“ grandfather ” apparently had no surprise at seeing 
him so early astir. Indeed, the Cameronian elder 
took not the faintest notice of the boy, till with 
bared head, and holding his broad bonnet rever- 
ently in his hand, he made his morning prayer to 
the God who had permitted him to behold the light 
of the new day. 

Thereafter Walter slipped his hand into his 
friend’s, and the two went their way over the short 


254 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


green grass which the sheep were industriously 
cropping to the edge of the moorland. There they 
gathered the black faces with many cries and much 
scampering of collie dogs. Some of the ewes had 
broken bounds, and it was necessary to find them 
ere they strayed too far with their lambs. Down 
the water meadows, past the stepping stones, across 
which Aleck had carried Walter that day long past 
when he had first gone to the great house of Dee- 
side, they went. The meadow-sweet showed its 
blonde tops above the dense tangle of the lush 
meadow grasses, like palm trees above a tropic 
jungle, and the somewhat heavy lusciousness of its 
smell was lightened by the freshness of the morn- 
ing and the bushes of sweetbriar by the roadside. 
Rabbits scattered like spray into their holes before 
the questing collies, or more leisurely hitched them- 
selves forward out of Walter’s way, with leaps from 
their hind quarters like small kangaroos, instinc- 
tively knowing that the lad would not hurt them. 

By the side of the road, on a heap of stones which 
Geordie Breerie, the stone napper, had left half 
broken, they found Sawny Bean. He was slowly 
rolling black twist tobacco in the palm of his hand, 
and there was on his saturnine countenance no trace 
either of the conflict or of the emotion of the night. 
He looked up sullenly and nodded a sulky greeting. 
Saunders stopped, and sat down beside him. Walter 
ranged round with the collies, plunging into the 
copses and getting his feet wet among the lilies by 
the waterside. Saunders had often thought that he 
had not done his duty by this neglected outcast. 
He would do what he could now. Perhaps his words 


SAWNY BEAN MAKES A NEW START IN lAFE. 255 

would not be wholly inopportune. But he forgot 
that it is not always when we are ready to begin 
that the object of our good intentions is equally pre- 
pared. 

“ Did ye see two yowes wi’ three lambs ony way 
down the waterside ?” he began. 

Saunders knew that if Sawny had seen them even 
at the worst of times, he would have let them pass 
unharmed. Sawny was exceedingly honest in the 
matter of domestic animals, with the single excep- 
tion of dogs. Sheep were kittle cattle, and the after 
fear of the dread death penalty, not so long ago 
abrogated, lay heavy on his soul. 

“ Na,” said Sawny, “there’s nae sheep been by 
this road this morning, nor since the dew fell yes- 
treen either. Yer yowes’ll be ower by the Laird’s 
mairch by the back field.” 

“ I saw the keepers that road at the gloamin’ yes- 
treen,” continued the farmer. “Was it you they 
were after, na, Sawny ?” 

“ ’Deed, an’ I wadna wunner,” said the poacher, 
frankly, knowing that though Saunders might preach 
he would never peach. “ They nearly gruppit me 
by the Cloven Stane on the edge o’ the Lang Wud. 
An’ they got m)’’ bag clean awa’, an’ a’ that was in’t, 
the dirty scoondrels !” 

“ Sawny, man, ye’ll no’ gie ower till ye be jailed 
for yer poachin’ pranks. Ye’re a clever falla’ an* a 
guid worker — what for can ye no’ gie up the poach- 
in’ an’ lead a respectable life ?” 

“ Man, Drumquhat, ye kenna the wild bluid. The 
faither o’ me was a gipsy, my mither was a Lee ; 
she carried me to the verra rabbit holes, an’ helpit 


2$6 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


my faither to ferrit aneath the laird’s ain windows. 
Na, it’s bred in the bane,’* continued Sawney. “ I’ll 
poach as lang as I leeve, as lang as there’s yin o’ 
thae bonny gray cattle playin’ aboot their holes. 
Ay, they’re braw an’ bonny wi’ their sleek bit lugs 
an’ their white tails joukin’ like butterflees amang 
the gress. D’ye see that yin ower there ?” he con- 
tinued, pointing with his finger where a rabbit 
popped up its head inquisitively for a moment over 
the bank. “ That yin has gotten a family o’ three 
in the second hole when ye get to the top o’ the 
knowe.” 

“ Sawny, ye dinna mean to say that ye ken ilka 
rabbit in the wud by head mark, as I ken my 
sheep ?” 

“ Ay,” said the poacher, calmly, “ I ken every 
weel-grown rabbit in four lairdships. That’s the 
only way to poach,” he continued. “ The wuds an’ 
the fiel’s are your hoose, the clud o’ nicht is your 
best friend. Ye maun be mair at hame in the 
thickest o’ the fir covers than in yer ain kitchen. 
Oil, ay, the dowg an’ me are fell fond o’ the big 
gray sheep wi’ the lang lugs an’ the wee gray yins 
wi’ the white tails ; but we like to see them best 
wi’ a bress collar on. My certes, but we’re richt 
weel pleased to dress the corp an’ pay their passage 
across to Liverpool !” 

It was in the days when the old steamer “ Count- 
ess of Galloway ” was running out of Kirkcudbright 
Bay, and when Liverpool formed the most conven- 
ient market for such produce as Sawny Bean pro- 
vided and Peter Chrystie franked across the chan- 
nel. 


SAWNY BEAK MAKES A NEW START IN LIFE. 

Sawny’s lurcher had been lying enjoying a not 
undeserved repose under a birch at the side of the 
heap of stones. Suddenly it opened one eye and 
cocked forward the stub of a tattered ear, showed a 
fine double row of teeth, and uttered a low, warning 
growl. Without moving a muscle, Sawny said to 
Saunders : 

“ There’s a keeper cornin’ doon the wud. He’ll 
step oot on the road in a meenit by the dykeside 
there.” 

In five minutes a tall, velveteen-clad keeper with 
a couple of dogs at heel sprang down the bank, 
stood a moment with the sunlight spraying on his 
handsome figure, and then walked irresolutely to- 
wards them. Sawny took no notice, but Saunders 
courteously gave him “ Good day.” The keeper 
returned his salutation, for Saunders was a man of 
well known probity, and to see him in company 
with Sawny Bean only conveyed to the mind of the 
keeper that he was endeavoring to bring him to a 
better and more Cameronian way of thinking, which 
indeed was the truth. This is what it is to have a 
character. 

“ Somebody,” said the keeper, looking severely at 
the unconscious Sawny, “has been in Peter Chrys- 
tie’s barn amang his bags yestreen. Mind you, 
Sawny Bean, liftin’ pheasants may only be poachin’, 
but liftin’ corn bags is stealin’!” 

Even as a keeper he betrayed that strange sense 
of a difference in moral quality between the taking 
of the wild things of earth and air and the misap- 
propriation of the personal property which a man 
gathers about his homesteads. 


258 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


“ D’ye mean to say that it was me that stealed 
Peter Chrystie’s bag, an’ liftit your pheasants ?” 
asked Sawny, truculently, but with an indescribable 
side wink in the direction of Saunders M’Quhirr. 

“ I dinna say — I ken!” maintained the keeper, 
firmly. 

“Ye hear, Drumquhat said the poacher. “Ye’ll 
bear me witness when I hae him up afore the sher- 
iff for defamation o’ character ? I’m no gaun to hae 
the guid name o’ Sawny Bean mishandled by a 
character like this wi’ the laird’s leggings on.” 

“Ye’ll find yersel’ in the jail o’ Kirkoobree some 
o’ thae fine mornin’s !” said the keeper, as a retort 
general, not being able to think of anything more 
definite. 

“ Weel,” said Sawny, “ that is as may be, but ae 
thing I ken — that it’s to your guid that I’m no’ 
ta’en there. For if I gang, ye’ll gang alang wi’ 
me.” 

The keeper blanched, and seemed to swallow 
down something quickly. 

“ Ay,” continued Sawny, “ sorry wad I be to say 
a word again a ceevil mairriet man likeyoursel’, but 
gin I war ta’en I micht hae to mak’ a clean breest 
o’t, an’ amang other things it micht come oot wha 
it was that met Guffie’s auldest son — him that’s a 
poulterer i’ Newcastle, at Da’beattie station wi’ twa 
hamper o’ game unkenned o’ by the laird. Ye mind 
o’ me tellin’ you at the time, Drumquhat, that they 
were a’ ta’en oot o’ the west side o’ the Lang Plant- 
in’, an’ ilka yin o’ them was fed wi’ your corn.” 

“ Mr. Bean,” said the keeper, in a changed tone, 
“ the less said aboot some things the better. Ye 


SA.WNT BEAN MAKES A NEW START IN LIFE. 259 


micht get innocent men wi’ sma’ families into sore 
trouble.” 

“ Naething wad be farther frae my thochts,” said 
Sawny, coolly. “ I’ll get nae man, even a gamey, 
into trouble ; but gin I war you I wad pit that corn- 
seck back into Peter Chrystie’s barn an’ say naeth- 
ing aboot it.” “ Here, Walter !” he called, “ tak’ 
this up to Peter Chrystie’s and throw it into the 
barn. Tell Nance Chrystie to gie ye a kiss to tak’ 
to her lad.” 

The gamekeeper whistled up his dogs, which had 
kept at a safe distance from the brilliant teeth and 
pricked ears of Sawny Bean’s lurcher. He tramped 
away with an uneasy heart. 

Saunders waited till the man’s footsteps had died 
away up the road in the direction of his home. 

Noo, Sawny,” he said, “ I’m gaun to mak’ you an 
offer. The mistress an’ me are gaun ower to the 
toon o’ Paris some time in the spring. I want a 
decent man to help the lads. Wull you come ? I’ll 
no’ need ye a’thegither till then, but I hae gotten 
the richt o’ killin’ the rabbits frae the laird noo, an’ 
till that time ye can trad rabbits for me, an’ I’ll gie 
ye the half o’ a’ ye catch. Only, nae mair nicht 
wark, an’ nae ploys wi’ the keepers.” 

Sawny Bean rose and took his hand. 

“ Saunders M’Quhirr,” he said, “ ye’re the best 
man in six pairishes. Yestreen I wadna hae dune 
it, but this mornin’ I’m gaun to try to be a better 
man for the bairns’ sake. I havena been ower guid 
a faither to them.” 

“Ay, it’s time ye turned ower a new leaf,” said 
Drumquhat, shaking his head solemnly. 


26 o 


A GALLOWAY IIEIID. 


“ Weel, I’m gaun to begin noo,” said Sawny, pen- 
itently. Then, with a flash of the old man : “ But 

ye’ll hae to be canny wi’ me for a wee. I’m no’ that 
shairp o’ the sicht, an’ gin a bit maukin hare gets 
amang the rabbits, ye’ll no’ hae to be ower hard 
on me.” 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

GOOD-BYE TO DEESIDE. 

There was the stir and bustle of preparation at 
Drumquhat. All the night there had been some 
one astir. Lights gleamed in one window and then 
another as candles were carried from room to room, 
but the morning came with a strange stillness as, 
under a sense of duty more than from any hope of 
sleep, all the family had lain down to rest, most of 
them fully dressed, upon their beds. Walter lay 
with his arms clasped about his mother’s neck, com- 
pletely dressed as he had thrown himself across the 
patchwork coverlet. He had known no other home 
than Drumquhat, and though no doubt the feeling 
would work off quickly enough, not even the thought 
of seeing that unimaginable new world of Paris 
could bring him any relief. His mother looked 
forward with fear to leaving her place of refuge for 
the great city where she had known so many 
vicissitudes and so much sorrow. 

Saunders M’Quhirr, who had once been in 
Glasgow, was calm. But even he was earlier than 


GOOD-BYE TO DEESIDE. 


261 

usual at his place of prayer. He stood there a long 
time commending those who were to remain at home 
to the care of “ Him that never slumbereth nor 
sleepeth.” It was little more than the first gray of 
the dawning when Mary M’Quhirr opened the 
kitchen door and stole out, wrapping her hands in 
her apron as she encountered the chill wind which 
blew over the moors to the east. She slipped into 
the stackyard and went round the house, looking 
quietly and somewhat sadly at each well-known 
object. Every stone her foot touched, she knew ; 
every hole in the bank, where the dusty mother 
hens ruffied their feathers on hot afternoons, was 
dear to her. She had a feeling that it would be long 
before she saw them again. As she passed the 
“ Guidman’s ” corner she saw him in his place of 
prayer, but she did not interrupt him, only stood 
still for a moment and put up a little prayer of her 
own. 

When she got to the milkhouse door she drew a 
bright key from her pocket and entered. With a 
trembling hand she began to skim the cream from 
the milk of the previous evening, starting the thick, 
rich cream over the edge of the broad, stone dish, 
and deftly guiding it into a separate vessel. 

While she was doing so a shadow fell across the 
door. It was her eldest son, Aleck, who stood with 
his shoulder against the doorpost and silently looked 
at his mother as if he had something on his mind. 

Mither,” he said at last, “ my faither says that 
gin I do weel for the ferm when you are awa’, he’ll 
tak’ an’ stock the Mickle Larg for me when ye come 
back !” 


262 


A GALLOWAY HEKD. 


Mary M’Quhirr was a good woman, few better; 
but it is not in woman born to rejoice at the knowl- 
edge that another woman has taken the first place 
in the love of the first man-child whom she bore and 
nursed. She knew what was coming, for her hus- 
band had told her, but the words froze on her lips. 

‘‘ Ye’re thinking o’ leaving us, Aleck !” she said, 
shortly. 

“ No, mither, no leavin’ ye, but juist takin’ a bit 
grund aside ye. Ye ken, mither, that me an’ Nance 
Chrystie has made it up — ” 

Mary M’Quhirr had to turn away to keep the tears 
from running into the brown “ milk-bines.” But 
Aleck, whose wits were sharpened by love, saw and 
understoood. 

“ Mither, she’s as good a lass as is in the country- 
side. There’s naething that she wouldna do for 
onybody in trouble — an’ ye ken ye said yoursel’ that 
ye likit her real weel, an’ that the lass couldna’ help 
the kind o’ folk she cam’ o’ !” 

“ It’s no’ that, it’s no’ that, Aleck, it’s juist that 
your mither’s a silly auld body that thinks she can 
keep her sons at her apron strings a’ their days. 
But do ye no’ think that ye micht wait a year or 
twa. Ye’re unco young to mairry !” 

« We’re four or five years aulder than you an’ my 
faither war when ye took up hoose in a but an’ a 
ben. Did ye begin ower early, mither ?” asked 
Aleck, gently, but with full assurance of his facts. 

“ I ken, Aleck, I ken ! It’s nocht but what I’ve 
been lookin’ for for a lang time. See you an’ be as 
guid a man to Nancy as your faither has been to 


GOOD-BYE TO DEESIDE. 263 

Aleck sketched a pattern with his toe on the 
ground. 

Hae ye spoken to her faither ?” his mother 
asked, looking up quickly. 

“ No, mither, but we were coontin’ on doin’ that 
the day.” 

“Ye can do naething withoot that, ye ken, 
Aleck !” 

“ ’Deed, mither, I’m no’ so sure o’ that. I’ve heard 
that you an’ my faither did verra weel withoot yer 
ain faither’s guidwull for a gye while after ye were 
mairriet. But I dinna think there’s muckle fear’o’ 
her faither no’ bein’ agreeable.” 

“ I’m nane so sure o’ that. Peter was a michty 
prood an’ fikie craitur a’ the day o’ him.” 

^ ^ 

In the afternoon of this day quite a large com- 
pany assembled at the little station of Deeside on 
the edge of the moors. The clean new granite- 
built buildings gleamed white in the light of the 
afternoon sun. Here were Nelly Anderson and 
Archie Grierson, who had come by the woodland 
path over the fields and by the waterside. What 
they had said to one another need not be set down 
in this place, but when they came out on the open 
road Nelly’s eyes brimmed with tears, and there 
was a pride of manhood on the young man’s face as 
though he saw the way through deeds of danger to 
the desire of his heart. There was Nance Chrystie, 
fresh as the morning, in her light print, and ribbon 
of sky blue to match her eyes— little sprays of fair 
hair blowing about her forehead under her hat. 


264 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


She came with her father, who wished to look after 
her among so many of the youth of the neighbor- 
hood gathered to bid the Drumquhat folk “ God 
speed ” on their long journey. Nance had also her 
plans, and had indeed suggested that it would be 
neighborly of her father to come over to the sta- 
tion. When Nance came she went into the dusky 
little waiting-room, where the water-can with P. P. 
R. on its side in black letters stands (generally 
empty). To her surprise, Aleck’s mother, who was 
there alone, caught her in her arms and kissed her. 
Then the two women looked at each other. 

“ He’s been a guid son to me. He’ll be a guid 
man to you !” said Mary M’Quhirr. 

To her own infinite surprise Nance burst into a 
passion of tears, and Mary hushed her like her own 
daughter. 

When they came out Nance was still a little wet 
about the lashes, but carried it off with an assump- 
tion of petulance which considerably astonished 
Aleck, who feared in his stupid, man-like way that 
the two women had been quarrelling. Felix Durand 
and his little maid, grown into a tall girl with a 
blowing cloud of golden hair, had driven over from 
the great house of Deeside. Marion walked up 
and down with Nelly and Walter. As they came 
to the upper end of the little station platform a 
small stone struck Walter on the breast. He 
looked up, and out of a bush of broom he saw arise 
the black elf-locks and great dark eyes of the 
“ Hoolet.” He beckoned her to come down, but 
she imperiously called him up. Soon therefore he 
left his companions and went to where the “ Hoolet’’ 


GOOD-BYE TO DEESIDE. 265 

and the “ Deil ” sat half-concealed by the bushes of 
the embankment. 

“ Good-bye, ‘ Hoolet,’ ” said Walter, “ I’ll no’ be 
lang afore I’m back at Drumqiihat again.” 

But the “ Hoolet ” only gloomed under her gipsy 
brows without holding out her hand. 

“Wull ye learn that yellow-heided lassie the 
Psalms ye learned me ?” she asked at last. 

“ I dinna ken !” said Walter, doubtfully, who had 
something of the kind in his mind. 

“ If ye do,” said the “ Hoolet.” “ I’ll never sing 
them mair, and I’ll tear the buik wi’ ‘ Our Father’ 
in’t to rags o’ tatters.” 

“ Then I’ll promise,” said Walter. 

Say as sure as daith and dooble daith !” de- 
manded the “ Hoolet,” suspiciously. Walter re- 
peated the prescribed formula. Then the “ Hoolet ” 
gave him her hand and looked down. Walter 
glanced once round. The whole company were 
gathered about the sliding ticket panel. The 
broad backs of Sawny Bean and Rab Affleck filled 
up the doorway. There was not a sign of the tall 
girl with the yellow hair anywhere. Walter 
stooped and kissed the “ Hoolet.” He told him- 
self that this was what would comfort her when he 
was away. 

The train at last came slowly along the great 
curve across the moorland, swinging through the 
great cutting from which the material for the em- 
bankment had been taken. lA that country the 
passengers come an hour before the time for the 
train. They keep the clocks fast on purpose. 
They know that there is no security in such an 


266 


A GALLOWAY HEKD. 


irresponsible thing as a railway engine going or 
coming at the time specified in the corner of the 
local paper. 

There was a brief turmoil, a hearty handshake or 
two, and the train with its freight moves out under 
its long, trailing plume of white smoke. On the 
platform stand those who have been left behind 
long after the curving line of carriages has passed 
out of sight. They stand silent till a sound like 
dull, distant thunder tells them that the great 
viaduct of the Boat o’ Rhone has been passed in 
safety. Then with heavy hearts they scattered, 
Sawny Bean and Rab Affleck to their hills, the other 
sons of Drumquhat homeward. The “ Hoolet ” 
and the “ Deil ” vanish unseen even by their father. 
Archie Grierson carries his sore heart into a con- 
genial solitude ; but Nance Chrystie and Aleck pass 
out along with her father, for Peter Chrystie’s day’s 
excitement is yet to begin 


CHAPTER XLV. 

THE FALL OF PETER CHRYSTIE. 

A HAZE of intense heat lay on the Galloway 
moors as the three turned out of the little wayside 
station after seeing the travelers start on their won- 
derful journey to the unknown country. The hill 
tops stood out a pale azure against the white sky. 
The shadows in the lirks of the hills were blue and 


THE FALL OF PETER CHRYSTIE. 26/ 

cool. Peter Chrystie, who had come most reluct- 
antly, was glad to be done with the ceremony. He 
eyed Aleck M’Quhirr, who walked sedately at his 
side, with a sidelong glance which said as plain as 
words that he would not be ill pleased to see him 
go off about his business. Since his account had 
grown so greatly at the Cairn Edward bank he had 
begun to think that nothing less than a bonnet laird 
at the very least would be good enough for any of 
his daughters, specially for Nancy, who, in spite of 
her waywardness, or perhaps because of it, was the 
apple of his eye. 

“ Ye’ll hae to bide gey close at hame. I’m thinkin’, 
Alexander,” he said, turning his shifty, piercing eye 
for a moment upon his companion. “ Yer father 
has lippened a deal to you.” 

Aleck was pondering an answer. He had always 
to think twice or thrice before he could get his 
tongue started. After it was in good going order 
he could talk with anybody ; but a Galloway man's 
tongue is a ship of broad beam and heavy tonnage, 
difficult to get under weigh. 

But it was a cold day when Nance Chrystie’s 
speech was frozen within her. 

“ Aleck has that big notions that it’ll no’ be lang 
afore he draps speakin’ till the likes o’ us, faither.” 

“ What mean ye, lassie ?” said her father. “ Are 
ye gane gyte ?” 

“They tell me that Aleck and his faither war 
lookin’ at the Larg the ither day. Aleck’s gettirr 
a big man thae days,” she continued. 

Peter Chrystie looked at the young man inquir- 
ingly. He had his own eye on the Larg as a 


268 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


promising addition to the farm of Nether Neuk, 
and it was not at all pleasing to him to hear that he 
had a competitor in the handsome young giant 
beside him. True, he had no doubt that he could 
outbid him, but the laird was none so caring about 
letting his property as led ” farms when he could 
get a good resident tenant ; and there was no doubt 
of the soundness of the financial position of Alexan- 
der M’Quhirr, Younger, of Drumquhat, if his father 
was minded to back him up. 

“ Then we’ll see ye nae mair ower by at byre 
time,” said Nance, with a wicked glance in her eye. 
“ But maybe ye’ll no’ object to speak till us when 
ye meet us on the road, in the by-gaun like.” 

By this time Aleck had gathered himself up. He 
could not keep pace with the nimble wit of his 
sweetheart, but he had a straightforward directness 
very decisive and fearless. He went at any 
obstruction with his head down, like a bull at a 
stone dyke. 

Nance Chrystie caught the look in his eye, and 
shut her little hands tight, for she knew that the 
matter had in its main issues gone out of her con- 
trol. 

“ Nether Neuk,” said Aleck, speaking slowly, and 
with a strong, solid emphasis on each word, “ listen 
to me. Nancy an’ me has made it up to get mair- 
riet. Hae ye ony objections ?” 

They were crossing a bit of moorland along a 
green sheep path cut diagonally across by drains 
which were sometimes bridged by a plank covered 
with turf and sometimes left open. The color rose 
to Peter Chrystie’s face at this direct assault. He 


THE FALL OF PETER CHRYSTIE. 


269 


seemed to be summoning all his energies for a 
thunderous reply which would sweep away the 
audacious youth in a volley of oaths. Nance caught 
the flood coming, and being a little in advance she 
kicked the little three-foot bridge to one side, and 
Peter Chrystie stepped suddenly up to his waist in 
the fine, black, peaty ooze of the moss. 

“ Faith er,” said Nance, “ I wush ye wad look 
where ye are gaun, an’ no’ rin ram-stammin into 
bogs as if ye had nae een in yer heid. Do ye no’ 
ken that thae’s yer second best black breeks 

She was successful in turning the flood of his 
wrath on herself. He stormed at her up hill and 
down dale for five minutes till there was hardly a 
bad word left in him. His voice rose to a strident 
scream and sank again. Aleck and Nancy both 
offered to help him out, but he snarled at them like 
an angry cat. 

“ ril shoot ye, as sure as ever I see ye — ay, or ony 
o’ the clan o’ ye — aboot the Nether Neuk !” he splut- 
tered. “Ye’re a set o’ deceitfu’, twa-faced hypo- 
crites. No, I’ll no’ be liftit oot by the like o’ ye ! 
Fetch Rab Affleck !” 

But Aleck had him beneath the two arms at the 
back, and lifted him out of the tenacious black moss 
with a “ cloop ” like the uncorking of a bottle. 

“ Noo, sit ye doon, Peter Chrystie, an’ hear reason, 
for ye’re no gaun oot o’ this till I get a ceevil an- 
swer. Nance, hand you your tongue the noo !” 

Aleck M’Quhirr had the bit between his teeth now, 
and it augured well for the happiness of the future 
home that Nance rather liked being bidden so 


270 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


sharply to be silent. She loved Aleck more than 
ever for his masterfulness. She was a woman. 

Peter sat gloomily regarding the state of his legs 
and boots, which was certainly sad enough in all 
conscience. 

“ What objection hae ye to me ?” Aleck began. 

Gin ye ken ocht again me oot wi’ it noo to my face. 
Do ye think that I canna provide respectably for a 
wife — as a dochter o’ yours should be ?” 

“ Yell never hae a dochter o’ mine wi’ my guid- 
will,” said Peter, sullenly. 

“ My faither has promised to tak’ the Larg for me 
when he comes hame. He has spoken to the laird, 
an’ if I do weel when he’s awa’ he’ll gie me a haun’ 
wi’ the stockin’ o’ it.” 

Larg or no Larg — stock or no stock, you’ll get 
nae lass o’ mine !” 

“ Your lass I’m gaun to hae, wi’ yer leave or 
withoot it ; but I wad raither hae it wi’ than withoot. 
I want nae disturbance.” 

“ An’ our lease so far run, faither,” interjected 
Nance, quietly. 

“ What has that to do wi’t ?” roared Peter. 

“ Weel, faither, ye see Sawny Bean’s left ye, an’ 
gane ower to the Drumquhat cot-hoose,” said Nance, 
“ an’ Aleck an’ his faither ken a’ aboot the loads o’ 
game that ye sent doon to Guffy, the game- 
dealer.” 

Peter Chrystie blanched to the roots of his griz- 
zled gray hair. But, Nance went on, slipping her 
hand into her father’s : 

“ But only Aleck an’ his faither ken, an’ it’ll be 


THE FALL OF PETER CHRTSTIE. 


271 

gratin’ an’ easy to let it go nae farther — to keep it in 
the family like.” 

Her father was still silent, but there was the light 
of reason in his eye. 

“ An’, faither, ye ken the Largis a guid big fenn, 
an’ it’ll tak’ a lot o’ stock. I ken ye wush us week 
Aleck’s faither does gey weel by us if he stan’s ahint 
him wi’ the laird. I’m sure ye’ll be wantin’ to be 
upsides wi’ him. Ther’s twal score o’ sheep for the 
hill—” 

Her father nodded with the affectionate look 
which a Jew might have cast on a Plantagenet who 
was drawing out his teeth and his gold at the same 
time. 

“An’ a matter o’ maybes ten kye,” pursued 
Nance, remorselessly. 

Peter Chrystie hesitated. The frown again 
gathered on his brow, 

“ The laird will be sure to prosecute,” said his 
daughter. 

“ Ye’ll get the kye,” said Peter. 

“ An’ ye’ll no’ see us bate for twa pair o’ horse 
an’ my ain powny, forbye. Ye were never a yin to 
do a thing by halves.” 

Peter Chrystie broke into a relieving laugh. 

“ O’ a’ the impidinest besoms that ever was, Nance, 
you are the warst.” 

“I’m my faither’s dochter,” said that young lady, 
nowise abashed ; “ an’ ye’ll promise that we’ll get 
the horse.” 

“ I suppose ye’ll hae to,” growing almost pleased 
to suffer from the abnormal cleverness of his own 
child. 


2/2 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


After these matters were settled, Nance and her 
sweetheart sat still on the spot of their engageihent 
with her father, where the complete victory was 
gained by the young woman. Peter had at her com- 
mand gone home to change his bemired gar- 
ments. 

“ Nance,” said her lover, “ what made ye so sore 
on your faither ? We could hae managed withoot 
that.” 

“ Aleck,” said the practical Nance, “ we’ll be 
nane the waur o’ the beasts, an’ he’ll like us a’ the 
better for no’ being saft wi’ him. Mair nor that, he 
can braw an’ weel afford it.” 

Peter counted up his promises on his way home, 
and said with a rueful laugh : 

“ Davert, that lass cowes a’ ; she’s ower clever for 
her ain faither, though what she sees in a sumph 
like yon is mair than I can tell.” 


CHAPTER XLVL 

THE EXPERIENCES OF JACOB BERGMAN, NOW HEAD 
WAITER IN HEIDELBERG, ONCE A SPY IN PARIS. 

I AM writing this for my friend in Scotland, whose 
Strange name I cannot spell. He wishes to put it in 
the story about Scotland which he is writing. I 
saw these things, and I wrote them because of the 
love I have for him, the young Herr who saved my 
brother’s life among the black men in Egypt. Our 


THE EXPERIENCES OF JACOB BERGMAN. 2/3 

Fritz went away to be Gordon’s man in the Soudan 
of Africa, and he wrote to our father and the mother 
at home in the village : “ I am a great man, and 

the intendent of a military station, and have soldiers 
under me, and he who is our general is hardly a man. 
He has no fear, and death is to him as life.” So 
this young Herr, whom I love the same as my own 
brother, met Fritz when there was not the thickness 
of a Wurst-skin between him and the torture that 
makes men blanch for thinking on, and I will tell 
you the story how he saved him. 

But the Herr says that I am a “ dumbhead,” and 
many other things, for that I can never tell any- 
thing that I begin to tell straightforwardly like a 
street in Berlin. He says my talk is crooked, 
like the “ Philosopher’s Way ” after one passes the 
red sawdust of the Hirsh-gasse, where the young- 
sters “ drum ” and “ drum ” * all the Tuesdays and 
Fridays, like the donkeys that they are. I am to 
talk about Paris, and the terrible time there in the 
war of Seventy. Ah ! the time when there was a 
death at every door, the time that Heidelberg and 
the Thurm village will not forget, that made gray 
the hairs of Jacob, the waiter, those sixty days he 
was in Paris, when the men’s blood was spilt like 
water, and the women and the children fell and 
were burned, or died shrieking on the bayonet 
point. There is no hell that the priests tell of like 
the streets of Paris in the early summer of Seventy- 
one. But it is necessary that I make a beginning, 
else I shall never make an ending, as Madame of 


* Fight with German rapiers. 


2/4 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


the “ Prinz Karl ” says when there are many guests, 
and we have to rise after two hours’ sleep, as if we 
were still on campaign. 

Comes now the young Herr, and he has his sup- 
per, for ever since he comes to the “ Prinz Karl ” 
he takes his dinner in the midst of the day, as a 
man should. 

“ Ouch !” he says, “ it makes one too gross to 
eat in the evening.” 

So the Herr takes his dinner like a good German, 
and when there is supper he will always have old 
Jacob to tell him tales, in which he says that there 
is no beginning, no era, nor Hegira, no Anno 
Domini, but only the war of Seventy. But he is a 
hearty young man, and will have his jesting. Yes- 
terday he said : 

Jacob, Jacob, this duck he must have been in 
the War of Siebenzig ; for, beegomme, he is tough 
enough.” 

But one night he did not come home, and instead 
there came an officer clanging his spurs, and twist- 
ing at his upper lip, and the bracing board on his 
back tight as a drum, the corners stretching the 
cloth till it was nearly cut through. Then Jacob 
Bergmann’s heels came together, and he saluted 
the officer of the Kaiser, though the shoulder-straps 
were not ten days old on the boy. 

“ Soldier said he, and I bowed not like the 
Oberkellner [head water] that I am. “ Of the 
war ?” said he. 

“ Of three wars,” answered I, standing up straight 
that he might see the Iron Cross, which I wear un- 


THE EXPERIENCES OF JACOB BERGMAN. 


der niy dress coat. “Jacob Bergmann, of the In- 
telligence Corps, at your service." 

“ Ah, you speak French !" 

“ Twenty years in Paris, and ten months during 
the siege." - 

Then his face darkened, and he lifted his eyes 
from the Cross. 

“ Does the English Herr live here ?" he asked. 
“ Is he within, for I have a cartel for him V* 

Then I told him that the English Herr was no 
schlaeger-fighter, though like the lion for bravery, 
as my brother had been witness. 

“ But what is the cause of quarrel ?" I asked. 

“ The cause is only that idiot, Hellmuth ; he 
was swaggering full of beer as the great tun is 
empty of it, and, meeting your Herr on the New 
Neckar Bridge, he thought that he would get some 
easy glory by pushing rudely against him. ‘ Par- 
don,’ says the Englishman, lifting his hat, for he is 
a gentleman, and by his manner noble. But Hell- 
muth turned at the end, and came again with all 
his corps comrades to back him, and, standing just 
so, he was about to open his mouth to laugh, when 
the Englishman took him by the collar, and by 
some art turned him over his foot into the gutter, 
which ran full of half-melted snow. The moon 
came out from behind a wrack of cloud, and all the 
men on the bridge saw, and you could hear the 
laughing at the Molkenkur." 

“ But that is no cause for a challenge, Excellentz," 
said I. “ How can an officer bring such a thing ?" 

“Ach!" said he, shrugging his shoulders, “a 


276 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


fight is a fight, cause or no cause, and Hellmuth is 
my mother’s nephew, though he be but a fool.” 

So I showed him up to the Herr’s room, and 
though I tried to get away I could hear their 
voices. 

“ You have my friend insulted, and you must sat- 
isfaction make.” 

“ That will I gladly do, if your friend will come 
up here to me.” 

“ I bring you a cartel, and I am an officer of the 
Kaiser.” 

“ Then, Herr Hauptmann, you and I know what 
fighting is, and that snicking and clipping at noses 
is no fighting. Tell your friend to come up and 
have a turn here with the four-ounce gloves, and I’ll 
give him all the satisfaction he wants.” 

The officer came down, and he said : 

“The Englishman will not fight, but he has more 
steel in his veins than a dozen of Hellmuths. 
Thunderweather, I will fight Hellmuth myself, if 
he desires to be led away. Once before I gave him 
a scar of heavenly beauty.” 

So he clanked off as he came, and he was a kerl 
of mettle and a good young officer. 

But the Herr is come, and he says he will tear up 
the whole of this nonsense, that I have no word of 
Paris on the paper yet, and my head is the head of 
a calf, and also of various other English animals. 
So I will be brief. I was in Seventy what the peo- 
ple call a spy. I served my country in more terri- 
ble places than the field of Weissenberg or the hill 
Spichern. Yawohl ! there were few Germans that 
could be taken for Frenchmen in Paris in those 


THE EXPERIENCES OF JACOB BERGMAN. 


months ; but in Paris I was, all through the war, 
and in the service at the Hotel de Ville, and my 
letters went through the balloon post to England, 
and so back to Berlin and Versailles, where my 
brothers were, and the Kaiser whom I serve. For I 
am a Prussian. I waited daily on Trochu, and I 
waited on Jules Favre when he dined ; but there 
was no one would have then suspected that Jules 
Lemaire with the accent of the Midi, was other than 
a stupid provincial come to Pans to earn the money 
and see the life. Not for nothing was I schooled at 
Clermont Ferrand. 

Only once was I nearly discovered. On a 
March morning, when a bitter wind was sweeping 
the bare, hacked trees on the Champs Elysees, I went 
to the Halles to make the market, as I went every 
morning ; for the best of the provision was kept for 
the Hotel de Ville, and I went daily to sign for it 
and select it. 

Suddenly I saw riding towards me a blue Prussian 
Hussar of my old regiment, alone at first, then two 
others some distance behind. He was a sergeant 
who had knocked me about much when I joined the 
colors. I hated the sight of him then, but now it 
was the best I could do to keep down the German 
“ Hoch !” that rose to the top of my throat, and 
stopped there all in a lump. Listen ! The gamins 
and the vauriens, the louts and cruel rabble, were 
after him and about him, and there were groups of 
National Guards looking for their regiments, or off 
to see what they could lay their hands on. But 
Strauss of the Blue Hussars sat his horse stiff and 
steady as at parade, and looked out under his eye- 


278 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


brows, and the mob howled and surged. Ach, Him- 
mel, but old Strauss sat steady, and rode his horse 
at a walk, easy, as if going up Unterden Linden 
under the eyes of the pretty girls — not that Strauss 
cared as much for these eyes as I myself would have 
done — ah — in Siebenzig ! And his two men came 
behind him, and so they rode, like true Prussians 
every one, and it took Jacob Bergmann all his time 
to keep from crying out, but he could not keep down 
the sobs ; but the Frenchmen thought that I wept 
to see the disgrace of Paris. And when the three 
stayed at the halt a moment, under the pressure of 
the noisy whelps, and grimly fitted a cartridge into 
their carbines, then I ran like the rest, and so no 
man took me for a German that day or any other 
day. 

Then I went to the Halles, and two carriers came 
with me, for the blockade was broken and the new 
provision was beginning to come in by the Porte 
Maillot. As I went about, selecting and grumbling 
like a brute of a surly Frenchman, an old man with 
beautiful white hair came alongside, and asked the 
market butcher very civilly for a piece of the beef 
he was cutting for me. The seller was dazed with 
drink, or brutal by his nature, for he refused with 
most foul language, and that though there was a 
young and beautiful lady with the old man. 

“ Have politeness,” I said to the stall-keeper, “ or 
else I will report you to the General.” 

So I gave to the old man what he required from 
the portion of the Hotel de Ville. This I did for the 
sake of the lady’s eyes as much as for the old man’s 
white hairs, and also because the butcher was a 


IN THE HANDS OF THE ENEMY. 2/9 

beast of Burgundy who daily maligned the Prus- 
sians, The old man gave me his card, saying that I 
might find it useful at some future time ; for which 
I thanked him, not knowing who might have it in 
his power to help me. Then I bowed the bow of 
Jules Lemaire, from the Midi, to the lady, but it was 
the German heart of Jacob Bergmann who thanked 
her with his eyes for the look she left behind her. 

When we went along the bare and shell-battered 
streets towards the Hotel de Ville one of the com- 
missionaires who carried the material came to me, 
and said : 

“ Monsieur Jules, do you know that the old man 
to whom you spoke was Felix Durand, whom all the 
patriots of the National Guard worship, calling him 
the Deliverer of ’48.” 


CHAPTER XLVH. 

IN THE HANDS OF THE ENEMY. 

In a house by the gate that leads to Saint Ouen 
had dwelt, during the long, confused havoc of the 
siege of Paris, the family who had started so gaily 
to Paris to settle the business of Walter’s future. 
The July heats, when they reached the city, had 
been full of turmoil, of cheering mobs, of well- 
dressed people parading the streets and boulevards. 
The Emperor drove hither and thither, greeted 
everywhere with such cheers as had not been his for 


28 o 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


years. Only in Belleville and Montmartre, and 
along the northern border of Paris looking towards 
the ironworks of St. Denis, dark-browed men 
gathered and talked apart. It was partly that very 
tumult which enabled Felix Durand to enter Paris 
safely, and to dwell there during the hot and fevered 
weeks which preceded the downfall of Sedan. 

Daily Felix took his party out to the fortifications 
to look across the great swelling country to where 
the terraces of St. Germain made a high level line 
against the sky. Nelly Anderson walked mostly 
with Mary M’Quhirr, for in the bustle of Paris and 
the rush of tremendous events the elder woman had 
drawn for protection to the younger, and it was 
often touching to see the confidence with which the 
douce and sturdy Scotswoman put her hand into the 
hand of the woman whom she had harbored so long 
in the security of her home among the Galloway 
moors. 

There had been talk of the whole party making 
their way to a seaport, and so over to England 
before the hands of the Germans fastened about the 
throat of Paris ; but Felix could not leave the city 
at that juncture, having been swept into the stream 
of Republican organization, and the others could 
not go without him. The city was divided into the 
two great factions of the Republic of the Middle 
Classes and the Republic of the Commune. It was 
among the cooler heads of this latter section that 
Felix took his place as a leader. During the siege 
all internecine strife had been hushed in the face of 
the enemy ; but when the Germans had come and 
gone the disappointment of the armed workmen of 


IN THE HANDS OF THE ENEMY. 


281 


the National Guard, led by half a dozen theorists 
and dominated by as many cruel and self-seeking 
adventurers, culminated in the overturn of the 
National government within the city of Paris, the 
retirement of Favre and Thiers to Versailles, and 
the establishment of the Commune. 

The young men who came swiftly to the head of 
affairs only knew the name of Felix Durand as the 
great hero of the revolt of 1848, and to some extent 
deferred to his opinion, at least before the people ; 
but really they did at all times solely according to 
their own will, and towards the end of March the 
power in Paris fell into the hands of men who, with- 
out bowels of mercy, slaughtered all who were 
suspected of opposing their will with hardly the 
bare pretence of justice. 

More and more “ Father Felix ” and the great 
Italian patriot, Garibaldi, who had been associated 
with him in the early cheering of the crowds of the 
National Guards, were put out of the consideration 
of the Red Revolutionaries who appeared from 
nowhere at the head of affairs in the French capital. 
So that generally, save when visited by some of 
those who knew him or desired his advice, Felix 
Durand kept his house on the St. Ouen road, and 
daily led out his little flock to the shell-torn and 
trampled grass of the fortifications. The newer 
men — Assi, Delescluze, Flourens — paid the old 
patriot a curious deference, though evidently com- 
passionating his inability to go with them all the 
way ill the overturn of all the elements of govern- 
ment. It was upon the subject of the shooting of 
General Thomas, once a companion in arms in the 


282 


A GALLOWAY HEKD. 


dark days of ’48, and who had been expelled along 
with him by the Buonapartist commissions of 1851, 
that Felix Durand finally withdrew himself from 
any participation in the acts of the Commune. But 
among the vast strength of the National Guard who 
held Paris he was popular to a degree. 

Saunders M’Quhirr remained outwardly the same 
man that he had been at Drumquhat — douce, quiet, 
sensible, taking the events that came as part of the 
experience which God had ordained for him in this 
world. Mary clung to Nelly Anderson, trusting to 
her confidence in Felix, and finding an ever-increas- 
ing astonishment in the fact that she could speak 
the strange language of this godless people, which 
sounded to her like the gibbering and mewing of 
apes. Walter had wandered as far as he could on 
all sides, and had busied himself in making a com- 
plete collection of chassepots and needle guns, 
revolvers, pieces of shell, and all the abandoned 
trappings of war which he found in the deep fosse 
of the outer fortifications. 

It was a chill day in May, 1879, the east wind 
sang among the long, bare scarp of the fortifications. 
Walter and Saunders had come out alone to pass 
the dreary morning. They were talking about 
Drumquhat. 

“ Will we ever get back there V* asked the boy. 

If the Lord wull,” returned Saunders. 

“ I w’-onder how Donald, the pet lamb, is getting 
on, an’ the dowgs, an’ Aleck ?” 

“God will tak’ care o’ them. He’s takin’ care 
o’ us.” 


IN THE HANDS OF THE ENEMY. 283 

Ay,” said Walter, “ I ken that, but I wish we 
were at hame again.” 

Above them they could see the grim battlements 
of the Buttes Montmartre, held by the rebellious 
National Guard. The red flag floated overhead. 
Paris lay clear and gray to the north and east, but 
there was firing along the west and south, and the 
constant rattle of firearms came from the direction 
of Versailles. 

A detachment of National Guards under the com- 
mand of an officer with a red sash and frayed 
epaulets came tramping irregularly toward them. 
There was little military order among them. 
Each man went as he pleased, and carried his gun 
as liked him best. Most of them were smoking 
cigars, and there was much talking and coarse mer- 
riment in the ranks. The soldiers were about to 
pass, when their officer, suddenly wheeling, caught 
Saunders by the arms and thrust his hand into his 
breast pocket. Saunders shook off his grasp lightl3% 
but the officer, calling out a word of command, 
brought the ragged regiment about the pair. 

Then the officer proceeded to question them, but, 
of course, without effect. Saunders M’Quhirr took 
from the very pocket into which the officer had so 
rudely put his hand a paper which Felix had given 
him for such an occasion. The officer looked at it, 
and read the signature aloud. 

“ It is a Haisser passer from Felix Durand,” he 
said. 

“ Felix Durand is a traitor,” cried a man from the 
ranks. 


284 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


“ No, he is a patriot, and was a Republican before 
you were born,” cried another, 

“ Take them both to the Hotel de Ville,” com- 
manded the officer. 

The detachment marched away as before through 
the streets, the soldiers singing ribald songs, smok- 
ing their cigars, and holding their guns at any 
angle. Here and there a passer-by would cry “ Vive 
la Commune f as they passed, but generally the few 
who had ventured out made off indoors as quickly 
as possible. One man was a little too late in doing 
this, for his flight caught the eye of the officer, and 
he ordered the door to be opened, and, having rout- 
ed out the unfortunate from under a bed, he ordered 
him to fall in alongside Walter and Saunders. 

You at least are a Frenchman, and we will 
make you fight for the honor of France,” he said. 

The poor, trembling, white-faced prisoner kept 
repeating : 

“ But I am a man of peace, and I cannot fight.” 

“ Well, if you do not fight you will be shot, so it 
will be better for you to take the chance of the Ver- 
saillists shooting you than the certainty that we 
will !” 

Before they had gone far some of the soldiers in 
the company cried out that they were thirsty, and 
that here was a wine shop. The shutters were 
closed, but the National Guards soon made an en- 
trance with the butt ends of their guns. They 
found nothing, however, but a few dozen empty 
bottles and stove-in barrels. This annoyed them so 
much that they broke with their guns and their feet 
everything breakable in the shop. 


IN THE HANDS OF THE ENEMY. 285 

So it was some time before this very military com- 
pany came to its destination. The fellows who 
stood guard at the door of the Hotel de Ville 
saluted the officer of the company conveying the 
prisoners. In a little while Saunders and Walter 
Anderson were conveyed into a large apartment, 
furnished like a luxurious mercantile office. At 
the farther end a man sat writing. He did not 
look up as the prisoners were ranged before him, 
nor even when the soldiers grounded arms. He 
was dressed in the uniform of a prefet of the French 
Republic. 

Suddenly he stopped writing, looked up, and 
motioned the officer to tell his tale. 

The officer laid the paper with the .signature of 
Felix Durand on the table, and explained that he 
had found these two foreigners straying on the for- 
tifications, and that when questioned the old man 
had produced this paper. The explanation seemed 
to put the man into a violent passion. 

Felix Durand !” he cried ; “ we have had 

enough of him. Who is he to give passports, who 
resigned from the Committee of Public Safety as 
soon as the danger began.” 

Then he looked sternly at the two before him. 
He rose instantly to his feet, came towards them, 
and, taking Walter’s face in his hand, he roughly 
raised his chin and looked into his eyes. 

“ Ha !” he said, in excellent English, “ this is be- 
yond all hope. And what might have brought you 
here — and you, Mr. M’Quhirr ; you do me too much 
honor. We shall have quite a family party.” 

Even before he spoke Walter had recognized him 


286 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


for the man whom he had seen at the little bridge 
on the Cairn Edward road that day his mother had 
fainted on the way from the kirk on the hill. 


CHAPTER XLVIII. 

THE PRISON OF MAZAS. 

Herbert Peyton, ex-imperial spy, present right- 
hand man to Raoul Regnault, the Robespierre of 
the Commune, sat at his desk in the Hotel de Ville. 
His chief had paid him a visit. He mentioned that 
he had committed to the prison of Mazas two sus- 
picious persons who had been brought in by a com- 
pany of the Belleville Guard. 

“ Why have you not shot them ?” inquired his 
chief, affably. 

“ Sir, they were foreigners,” replied the Sous- 
Prefet. 

“ It is too far gone now to draw fine distinctions,” 
said his chief. “ The barriers have been broken, 
and the Rurals are in Paris. Soon it will be ‘ devil 
take the hindmost.’ ” 

At this point a National Guard without his hel- 
met, and with a rusty bandage about his eye, burst 
into the room without knocking. 

“ The Versaillists are in Paris, citizens,” he cried. 
“ The tricolor floats on the Arc de Triomphe — their 
batteries are sweeping the Place de la Concorde.” 

Raoul Regnault started, and swore a great oath, 


THE PRISON OF MAZAS. 


287 


“ Now at last it is death and fire,” he said ; “let 
us pay off our old scores quickly, and then with bar- 
ricade and petroleum flask perish on the ruins of 
blazing Paris.” 

“ In the meantime, ’ said Herbert Peyton, whom 
we need not refer to under under his present alias, 
since he changed his name oftener than his coat, 
“let us get out a rousing proclamation, and death 
be the portion of all who will not fight for us.” 

“ That as you will,” said Raoul Regnault, turning 
on his heel and going out. 

Having bent to his work for half an hour, Her- 
bert Peyton produced a proclamation which read as 
follows : 

“ Parisians ! the struggle in which we have en- 
gaged cannot be abandoned. The Versailles troops 
hold a portion of Paris. They must at once be 
driven out. To arms ! To arms ! Let Paris bristle 
rV with baraicades Let the pavements of the streets 
be torn up to furnish ammunition and to keep back 
the invaders. The citizens and citizenesses who 
refuse their help will be instantly shot. Suspected 
houses will be set on fire at the first signal given 1” 

Having sent out this ferocious proclamation, 
with orders that it should be instantly posted 
throughout the whole of Paris, Herbert Peyton 
began to put his possessions together for the pur- 
pose of getting out of the city. He had an excel- 
lent notion that the game was up. But he would 
have lunch before anything. He rang the bell. The 
close-cropped head of Jules from the Midi, that 


288 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


excellent waiter and good Communard, appeared at 
the door. 

“ Lunch, Jules — a bottle of Nuits, the red seal, 
and one of the good Volney.” 

“ Certainly, your Excellence — Citoyen, I mean," 
said Jules. “You will forgive my slipping. Mon- 
sieur has the noblest of presences !" 

Herbert Peyton smiled. Jules had been very at- 
tentive to him. 

“You may say good-bye to the Hotel de Ville, 
Jules. It will be burned to the ground to-day, and 
many thousands in this city will never see to-mor- 
row dawn. Here, give this order to the officer on 
guard." 

He scribbled a few words on a sheet of paper, at- 
tached the stamp of the Pr6fecture of Police, and 
threw it open across the table. 

As Jules went out he read the words : “ Arrest 

all persons in the house of Felix Durand, in the 
Avenue St. Ouen, and convey them without delay 
to the prison of Mazas." (Signed) The Procurator 
of the Commune, Raoul Regnault. 

The spy had written the order over one of the 
signatures of the Prefet of the Commune, which lay 
beside him like infernal blank checks. 

Felix Jules from the Midi read it without seem- 
ing to cast an eye downwards. The Sous-Pr6fet 
watched him keenly, but he went out with the paper 
in his hand, and without a word he handed it to the 
officer waiting in the ante-chamber. There was a 
clatter of arms, an audible grumble from the com- 
manded soldiers at having to go so far, and then 
the tramp of men died away in the distance. "When 


THE PRISON OF MAZAS. 


289 


Jules had served the soup he stood behind the great 
man’s chair, and his thoughts galloped swiftly. He 
could not forestall the soldiers on their errand, but 
it occurred to him that he might be at the prison of 
Mazas as soon as the prisoners. When the final 
course of the lunch was reached, the ex-spy with- 
drew to conclude his preparations for departure. 

Jules slipped upstairs, changed his waiter’s clothes 
for the uniform of an officer of the regulars, and 
over this he drew the blue blouse and wide cotton 
trousers of a common workman. These had seen 
much service. He slipped out quickly, and was 
soon lost among the crowd of fugitives who were 
hurrying hither and thither to get away from the 
sound of firing, which now seemed to increase, and 
to encircle central Paris like a ring. 

Meanwffiile, in the prison of Mazas, Walter and his 
grandfather sat hand in hand. There was only one 
chair in the little chilly cell, floored with octagonal 
flags, so Walter sat on Saunders’ knee, and they 
spoke softly of the good times they would have 
wffien they returned to the little farm by the water- 
side, where the sheep were cropping the grass by 
the side of the brown moors. 

“ We are in the Lord’s hands,” said Saunders, 
“ but the tender mercies of the wicked are cruel.” 

Saunders paused, for the tears stood in his eyes — 
not for himself, but for this lad of so many prayers 
and so much promise. 

I wadna be fear’t,” said Walter, stoutly. ‘‘ We 
wad stand thegither and gang thegither to Jesus 
gin it cam’ to that.” 

The old man held the lad closer in his arms, but 


290 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


said no word. The unspoken sympathy between 
them was too strong for words. 

It’s a terrible city, this, like the black city of 
Lost Souls,” said Saunders. 

The prison doors were flung open, and they were 
ordered to come out. They understood the tone, 
though not the words. Saunders M’Quhirr took 
Walter’s hand, and they went down the staircase, 
stumbling in the uncertain light. When about half 
way down the pure air of the outer world met them 
in the face like a wall. It seemed almost too keen 
to breathe after the tepid pollution of the cell. 

They found themselves in a great bricked yard, 
the walls rising sheer for twenty feet. The bricks 
were pitted with bullets. Along the wall there was 
a row of dark, irregular patches, staining the white 
dust with a darker crimson. 

A company of soldiers like those who had brought 
them off the ramparts marched into the courtyard 
with jeer and outcry. Walter burst from the man 
who held him and ran to his mother. He leapt up 
to her and clung about her neck. Felix Durand 
stood and looked on calm as ever. Mary M’Quhirr, 
with the face of one whose thoughts were fixed on 
the future, looked across the rubbish-littered prison 
courtyard, and her eyes met those of her husband 
in a long, steady look. 

Herbert Peyton entered the courtyard smoking a 
cigar. With a wave of his hand he ordered the 
soldiers to form into two lines, and motioned the 
prisoners towards the wall where the dark stains 
lined the court. 

“ Now,” he said, “ many accounts will be settled 


TflE PRISON OF MAZAS. 


291 


at one voile}'. It is well to have onl}^ one term-time 
and one pay-day. You’ll find that I told you true, 
Nelly Anderson, when I said that some day I would 
make you pay sweetly for that knife in my side. 
Now, you will see your precious cub die first.” 

It needed the strength of three men to separate 
mother and son. The spy ordered the men to lead 
him to the wall apart from the others. Walter stood 
proudly erect. He only found time to say to his 
mother : 

“ Dinna greet, mother. It’ll no’ be lang an’ it’ll 
no’ be sair.” 

There was muttering among the men. 

“ We should be fighting men, not slaughtering 
children,” they said. 

“ It is a traitor’s nest. They are enemies of the 
Commune,” cried Herbert Peyton. “ Shoot the boy 
down !” he commanded. 

No rifle was lifted. He became beside himself 
with rage. Dropping his hand to his belt, he drew 
a revolver, and advanced to put it to Walter Ander- 
son’s head. The boy looked him calmly in the eye, 
even when he could see the forefinger twitch on the 
trigger. Felix Durand broke from the National 
Guards who held him, and cried : 

“ This man is a traitor ! He was a Buonapartist 
spy. I have the papers to prove it. Will you let 
him kill this innocent little boy — a British subject — 
for whom his government will make France pay 
dearly. Listen to me. I am Felix Durand. Thirty 
years ago I bled for the Republic. Twenty years 
was I in exile for you. Will you slay me, and let a 
cur like that live ?” 


2g2 


A GALLOWAY IILllD. 


The spy turned his pistol from the boy to the old 
man, but just as he was about to fire the prison gate 
burst open, and with loud cheers a crowd of soldiers 
burst in. 

“ Vive la ligne T cried Felix Durand (“ Hurrah for 
the soldiers of the line !”), and “ Vive la ligne /” cried 
the watchers on the housetops, weary with watching 
for the deliverers. The Communards fell in heaps, 
many of them at the first fire. Herbert Peyton 
turned in the last access of despair, and fired his 
revolver at the rapidly approaching line of regulars. 
Then he threw up his arms, spun round on one foot, 
and fell heavily on his face to the earth. An officer 
with a tricolor sash came toward the pale line of 
saved prisoners. 

“ This way,” he said, leading the way through the 
gate. ” Let them fight it out. A little blood-letting 
is always good for Frenchmen !” 

It was Jules of the Midi, otherwise Jacob Berg- 
mann of the German Intelligence Corps. 


CHAPTER XLIX. 

ALL THINGS NEW. 

It was again high summertide in Galloway. 
July burned passionate in every hedgerow. Roses 
white and red clambered and blossomed over them, 
making a tangled patchwork with Starwort and 
Ragged Robin. A fresh breeze blew down the 


ALL THINGS NEW. 


293 


valley of the Ken — that equal blowing northern 
wind with the edge on it which puts men in the 
humor for work and wins the meadow hay, making 
every hour that it blows worth a peck of golden 
sovereigns. The little farm of Drumquhat nestled 
white among its oaks and beeches under the moors. 
Its new coat of whitewash almost dazzled the eye, 
and the Sabbath silence was so restful that the only 
sound was the bleat of a ewe calling her lamb on 
the hill and the morning hum of the bees setting 
out on their freebooting among the flowers. From 
our place up on the hillside we can look down on 
the blessed quiet of the little farm and up at the 
great arch of blue sky buttressed on one side by 
the great ridges of Screel and Ben Gairn far to the 
south, and upheld round the northern horizon by 
the three Cairnsmuirs and the billowy forms of the 
Kells range. 

We take our places in the high corner of the 
moor, where, in the angle of the great march dyke, 
Archie Grierson has constructed his hill study. 
That young man has been here this morning ever 
since the breaking of the day, for expectation has 
made his night sleepless. He had seen Saunders 
M’Quhirr move out, leaning a trifle more heavily on 
his staff than of old, to his corner of quiet prayer. 
He has seen Mary M’Quhirr go to the byre with her 
attendant maiden, and in a little Walter Anderson 
sturdily take the hill with his dogs. It is his pride 
to look the sheep by himself. Then the two 
younger sons, Rab and James, have each gone out 
and come in, one from the stable and the other from 
the fields. Over all broods the spirit of Sabbath 


294 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


consecration. The larks in the lift, the bees in the 
heather, the lambs in the pasture make melody 
each in his place, and the heart of Archie Grierson 
also sings a song. And the reason of the song is 
that, late in the gloaming of the night before, Nelly 
Anderson put both her hands in his and promised 
that she would commit her life to him — Walter, the 
stripling, adding a glad-eyed entreaty. 

It had been settled that Walter was to go to school 
in Cairn Edward, to that fine scholar and noble 
character who set his mark so deep on the best of 
the Cairn Edward youth, so that wherever they may 
sojourn they will not forget the counsel and exam- 
ple of John Constable, head master of the Cairn 
Edward Institution. Since the return from Paris 
it had become generally known that Walter Ander- 
son who dwelt at Drumquhat with his mother, was 
none other than Walter Anderson of Deeside. 
Among other arrangements, Felix Durand had by 
friendly suit and mutual agreement cleared this 
matter to the satisfaction of all. As Walter’s guar- 
dian he had insisted on the boy and his mother tak- 
ing up their abode in the old house to which Walter 
had come in such strange fashion so long ago ; but 
Walter had point-blank refused to leave his “ gran,” 
save and except for the purpose of going to school ;• 
and his mother had other purposes in her mind, for 
the long latent love of Archie Grierson was stirring 
within her the consciousness of new possibilities of 
life to herself and help to others— at once an atone- 
ment and a compensation for the mistakes and un- 
happinesses of her life. Archie Grierson had been 
called to a little church in the valley of the Dee, 


ALL THINGS NEW. 


295 


where, in sobriety and poverty, a few faithful folk 
worshipped the Lord. With the income which the 
assiduity and French carefulness of Felix Durand 
had assured to her, Archie and she would be very 
happy. It was in order to walk with her to the lit- 
tle church of Whinnyliggate that Archie had been 
waiting so long. The mellow tones of its bell, the 
clearest and finest in the countryside, floated up to 
him in his high corner at eight o’clock, and shortly 
after he had heard the echoes of its joyful noise die 
into silence, a collie dog suddenly came storming 
boisterously over the dyke in the lee of which he 
was sitting, and immediately his friend, Aleck 
M’Quhirr, followed. Without expressing any sur- 
prise at finding him there, he came and sat down 
beside him. 

There was no greeting between the friends, save 
that Archie made room for Aleck by his side. 

“ Come in, h’yer !” said the latter to his dog, 
which was inclined to go careering along the hare 
tracks. 

The collie obediently came and lay down at his 
feet. 

“ Old man settled in Cairn Edward yet ?” queried 
Archie at last. 

“Ay,” said Aleck; “ he said that he had made 
eneuch siller, an’ that the lasses were plaguin’ him 
to tak’ that new hoose beside the railway brig in 
the toun, that has sic a heartsome view o’ the station 
platform and the goods shed, so he juist took it at 
the short hand, an’ left Nancy an’ me wi’ Nether 
Neuk ; ' for,’ said he, ‘ gin ye are to gang in 
thegither we may juist begin afore haytime ; I’m 


296 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


no’ gaun to slave a’ simmer for you to be idle a’ 
winter.’ So Nancy and me were mairriet as sune as 
they got hame frae Payris, an’ the auld man flittit 
as sune as he got the furniture bocht for Station 
View — that’s the braw new hoose in at the heid o’ 
the toun. The lasses said that the auld things frae 
here wadna be mensefu’ in a new hoose, so every- 
thing’s to be new an’ o’ the best. Peter Chrystie 
has had his buyin’ coat on for some weeks noo,” 
said his son-in-law, chuckling. 

“ Aleck, I’m to be mairriet, too,” said Archie, 
blushing. 

“ To Nelly ?” said Archie, not at all surprised. 

Archie nodded. 

“ That’s what Nancy said mair nor twa year sin’. 
I didna believe her, but she was richt for a’ that. 
It’s anither lesson to me,” said Aleck, solemnly. 
“ But come awa’ doon to the hoose. Hae ye had 
yer breakfast ?” 

“ I had nae mind o’t,” said Archie, solemnly, but 
rising, nothing loath. 

So the two went their way down to the farm, and 
Aleck stopped outside to talk to his mother, letting 
Archie go in alone. As he passed through the 
dusky kitchen his heart beat faster, and at the door 
of the “ room ” he paused a moment expectantly. 
In a moment Nelly Anderson came to him with the 
joy of surrender brimming in her eyes. Archie 
took a step forward, and as simply and innocently 
as a child she gave herself into his arms. 

That day Walter sat with his hand in Archie 
Grierson’s in the little church of Whinnyliggate to 
which the whole family, except Saunders, himself, 


ALL THINGS NEW. 


29; 


had gone, to do honor to the occasion of the last 
time when the young minister was to sit as a 
member in the little church which he had attended 
so long. He was to be ordained the following 
week, and married the week after. But Saunders 
said : 

“ Weel wad I like to come, but it will be more 
seemly for me that’s an office-bearer to worship in 
my own congregation.” 

So he yoked the brown mare and drove the red 
cart all the way to the church in Cairn Edward. 
The folk from Drumquhat filled two whole pews in 
the little church of Whinnyliggate. In the pew 
immediately in front of them was a company of 
four, no other than Sawny Bean and his wife, both 
in decent black, the “ Hoolet ” and “ Deil ”, in 
apparel for which they were indebted to the clever 
needle of Nancy M’Quhirr, late Chrystie, who with 
her husband sat opposite in the blushful conscious- 
ness of recent bridehood. The “ Hoolet ” took one 
quick look round to see if the French lassie ” was 
there. She felt instinctively where Walter sat, and 
as soon as she knew that her rival was absent she 
smoothed her elf locks and turned all her attention 
to her Psalm-book. 

So they all stood up and sang with all their hearts : 

“ All people that on earth do dwell 

Sing to the Lord with cheerful voice ; 

Him serve with mirth, His praise forth tell. 

Come ye before Him and rejoice.” 

And as the congregation gripped the great swing 


298 


A GALLOWAY HERD. 


of the melody after turning the corner of the second 
line, Nelly Anderson looked into the eyes of her 
lover, and knew that the old things had passed away 
and that all things had become new. 




% 


J 





-V. 


s. V 




■i: 


'J.iv •» S 


y'**% •.* ■*» J 


M 






V J • : ,=■ * ^ •, . ; ' ■ .. I < 








0-^i, 


■i’ 


-I 


to Ik Ito 




s .• 


T* * 


I 


I I 


‘ 



;1 






? 






■■ ‘ 


v‘V.rF‘f?-:4 


V ,♦•; (• T \ '< f 




■> 


V -r' 


m 




y.'* • 


frt! ••' • . 

r*,../ ■ ■ *^m:Bm 

^ V;-,:- ; 

? ” ' ■ ‘ '^' V ' ' 

r . , . * .' r V-' •• vV‘ •. . .'•; :-M . 

re c-\ '' i y- ; f i; : w . . : •; : <[ 

? If; >' * iff ^ i J -. ■; V 



y ^ '' W '*• -■ f!* i '■ 'V'T 

» z >•; - „ 4 ' i • ‘ \ '• it .‘- • • r ^ ^ •’ 

■■'■' i' . ♦: i * // ' 

; • .. ■ , V 


r\:<f 


■ 1 ' \ ^ ■■ 

• . ' • , • V , -^ • V 1 . « ^ 






>• * * r » 


I 1 1 ^ V ' Wf *' . • . r - 

■ . - F':,;"’''. /' r^vv 




> 


rfs^nr: -'i 


>i! 

t 


Ki:;. , ' •■ ■ <!:•/'.'! 

"■ ■ ' -'rV-s-fij 

' ; ■ / i :* / ^:■<^ }KI 


'• V -M •' f ■ ' .. ti 

■ • •♦*.;> 



^n'l-ii '■. :'( li'mk 


... ^ r ., ^ • 


» f 

I 

I 

^ .. 


• I I 


>' ■•v 




t , 


4 

* . .. 




i : : :• • \u ^^jC4 • .'• ; , 






CV 




'^:^i 


\k; , - 


'JT^ 






31 . 


,' *» 


f !’ 9 


1 «'.. - , . •' ^ .' *' -ii 



-’ '• H ^ ' } 'li 

r . ■ r m .» *• '• 



i - r 


L )rfr • I' 






f 


• » ’ 

6 


t. 

t 


1 

# 

\ 

\ 


I 



